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Translated by

Elizabeth Roctenberg
Stanford
University
Press
Stanford
California
2000
THE INSTANT
OF MY DEATH
Maurice B!anchot
DEMEURE
FICTION AND TESTIMONY
jacques Derrida
Support for the translation was provided
by the French Ministry of Culture
Originally published in French as:
for The lmtant of My Dearh,
in 1994, Maurice Blanchor, L'instanr de ma mort,
by Fara Morgana
@ Fata Morgana 1994
Reproduced by permission of Fara Morgana.
for Demeurr: Fiction and Testimony,
in 1998, Jacques Derrida, Demeurr: Mauriu 8/nndJot,
by Edirions Galilee
@ 1998, Editions Galilee.
Stanford University Press
Stanford. California
@ 2000 by the Board of Trustees of the
Leland Stanford Junior University
Primed in the United Stares of America
CIP dara appear at rhe end of the book
Contents
THE INSTANT OF MY DEATH
Maurice Blancher
DEMEURE: FICTI ON AND TESTIMONY
Jacques Derrida
Reading "beyond the beginning";
or, On the Venom in Lerrers:
Postscript and "Literary Supplement"
Notes
13
104
III
THE I NSTANT
OF MY DEATH
Maurice Blanchot
Linstant de rna mort
j E ME SOUVIENS d' un jeune homme-un homme en-
core jeune-empeche de mourir par Ia more meme-er
peur-erre l'erreur de l'injustice.
Les Allies avaiem n!ussi a prendre pied sur le sol
frans;ais. Les Allemands, deja vaincus, lunaiem en vain
avec une inutile ferocire.
Dans une grande maison {le Chateau, disait-on), on
frappa a Ia porte plurot rimidemenr. Je sais que le jeune
homme vim ouvrir a des hores qui sans doute deman-
daient secours.
Cerre fois, hurlemenr: "To us dehors. "
Un lieutenant nazi, dans un franyais honreusemenr nor-
mal, fir sorcir d' abord les personnes les plus agees, puis
deux jeunes femmes.
"Dehors, dehors." Cette fois, il hurlair. Lejeune homme
ne cherchair pourrant pas a fuir, mais avanc;air lenremenr,
d'une maniere presque sacerdorale. Le lieutenant le sec-
oua, lui montra des douilles, des balles, il y avair eu mani-
fesremenr com bar, le sol erait un sol guerrier.
Le lieurenanr s'etrangla dans un langage bizarre, et met-
2
The Instant of My Death
1 REMEMBER a young man-a man still young-pre-
vented from dying by death itself-and perhaps the error
of injustice.
The Allies had succeeded in getti ng a foothold on
French soil. The Germans, already vanquished, were strug-
gling in vain with useless ferocity.
In a large house (the Chateau, it was caJJed), someone
knocked at the door rather timidly. I know that the young
man came ro open the door ro guests who were presum-
ably asking for help.
This time, a howl: "Everyone outside. "
A Nazi lieutenant, in shamefully normal French, made
the oldest people exit first, and then two young women.
"Outside, ourside." This rime, he was howling. The
young man, however, did nor rry ro Ace but advanced
slowly, in an almost priestly manner. The lieutenant
shook him, showed him the casings, bullets; rhere had ob-
viously been fighting; the soil was a war soil.
The lieutenant choked in a bizarre language. And put-
ring the casings, rhe bullets, a grenade under the nose of
3
4 L'instant de ma mort
ranr sous le nez de l'homme deja moins jeune (on vieillir
vice) les douilles, les balles, une grenade, cria disrincre-
menc: "Voila a quoi vous eres parvenu."
Le nazi mir en rang ses hommes pour arreindre, selon
les regles, Ia cible humaine. Lejeune homme dir: "Faires
au moins rentrer rna famille." Soir: Ia ranee (94 ans), sa
mere plus jeune, sa sreur er sa belle-sreur, un long er lent
correge, silencieux, comme si tour erair deja accompli.
Je sais-le sais-je-que celui que visaienr deja les Alle-
mands, n'arrendanr plus que l'ordre final, eprouva alors un
sentiment de legerere exrraordinaire, une sorre de beati-
tude (rien d'heureux cependanr),-allegresse souveraine?
La renconcre de Ia mort er de Ia mort?
A sa place, je ne chercherai pas a analyser ce s e n r i m e n ~
de legerere. II erair peur-etre rout a coup invincible.
Morr-immorrel. Peur-erre l'exrase. Pluror le sentiment
de compassion pour l' humanire souffranre, le bonheur de
n'erre pas immorrel ni erernel. Desormais, il fur lie a Ia
mort, par une amirie subreprice.
A cer instant, brusque retour au monde, edata le bruit
considerable d'une proche baraille. Les camarades du
maquis voulaient porter secours a celui qu'ils savaienr en
danger. Le lieutenant s'eloigna pour se rendre compte. Les
Allemands resraient en ordre, prers a demeurer ainsi dans
une immobilire qui arrerair le temps.
Mais voici que l'un d'eux s'approcha et dir d'une voix
ferme: "Nous, pas allemands, russes," er, dans une sorre
de rire: "armee Vlassov," er il lui fir signe de disparairre.
Je crois qu'il s'eloigna, roujours dans le sentiment de
legerere, au point qu'il se rerrouva dans un bois eloigne,
nomme "Bois des bruyeres," ou il demeura abrire par les
arbres qu'il connaissair bien. C'esr dans le bois epais que
tour a coup, et apres combien de temps, il rerrouva le sens
du reel. Parrour, des incendies, une suite de feu conrinu,
The lnstrmt of My Death
5
rhe man already less young (one ages quickly), he dis-
tinctly shouted: "This is what you have come ro. "
The Nazi placed his men in a row in order ro hir, ac-
cording ro the rules, the human target. The young man
said, "Ar least have my family go inside." So it was: the
aum (ninety-four years old); his mother, younger; his sis-
rer and his sister-in-law; a long, slow procession, silent, as
if everything had already been done.
I know-do I know ir-thar the one at whom the Ger-
mans were already aiming, awaiting bur the final order,
experienced then a feeling of extraordinary lightness, a
son of beatitude (nothing happy, however)-sovereign
clarion? The encounter of death with death?
In his place, I wiU nor cry ro analyze. He was perhaps
suddenly invincible. Dead-immortal. Perhaps ecsrasy.
Rather the feeling of compassion for suffering humanity,
rhe happiness of nor being immortal or eternal. Hence-
forth, he was bound ro death by a surreptitious friendship.
At that instant, an abrupt rerum to rhe world, rhe con-
siderable noise of a nearby barrie exploded. Comrades
from the maquis wanted to bring help to one they knew
ro be in danger. The lieutenant moved away ro assess the
situation. The Germans stayed in order, prepared to re-
main thus in an immobility that arrested rime.
Then one of them approached and said in a firm voice,
"We're nor Germans, Russians, " and, wirh a sort oflaugh,
"VIassov army," and made a sign for him to disappear.
I chink he moved away, srill with the feeling of light-
ness, unril he found himself in a distant forest, named the
"Bois des bruyeres," where he remained sheltered by trees
he knew well. In the dense forest suddenly, after how
much time, he rediscovered a sense of the real. Every-
where fires, a conti nuous succession of fires; all rhe farms
were burning. A little Iacer, he learned rhac three young
6 L'instant de ma mort
routes les fermes bn1laienr. Un peu plus card, il apprir que
rrois jeunes gens, fils de fermiers, bien errangers a roue
combat, et qui n'avaient pour rorc que leur jeunesse,
avaient ere abattus.
Meme les chevaux gonBes, sur Ia roure, dans les champs,
atrestaient une guerre qui avait dure. En rea1ite, combien
de temps s'etair-il ecouJe? Quand le lieutenant craie revenu
ec qu'il s'eraic rendu compte de Ia disparicion du jeune
chacelain, pourquoi Ja coJere, Ia rage, ne l'avaient-elles pas
pousse a brCtler le Chateau (immobile ec majesrueux)?
C'est que c'etair le Chateau. Sur Ia fac;:ade emit inscrire,
comme un souvenir indestructible, Ia dace de 1807. Ecaic-
il assez culcive pour savoir que c'eraic l'annee fameuse de
lena, lorsque Napoleon, sur son petit cheval gris, passaic
sous les fenetres de Hegel qui reconnur en lui ''l'ame du
monde," ainsi qu'ill'ecrivir a un ami? Mensonge ec verite,
car, comme Hegel l'ecrivit a un aurre ami, les Franc;:ais pil-
lerent et saccagerent sa demeure. Mais Hegel savair dis-
tinguer l'empirique er l'essentiel. En cecre annee 1944, le
lieutenant nazi eur pour le Chateau le respect ou Ia con-
sideration que les fermes ne suscitaient pas. Pounant on
fouilla partouc. On prir quelque argent; dans une piece se-
paree, "Ia chambre haute," le lieucenanr rrouva des papiers
ec une sorce d'epais manuscric-qui contenaic peuc-ecre
des plans de guerre. Enfin il partie. Tour brulaic, sauf le
Chateau. Les Seigneurs avaient ere epargnes.
Alors commenc;:a sans douce pour le jeune homme le
rourmenr de !' injustice. Plus d' excase; le sentiment qu'il
n'erair vivant que parce que, meme aux yeux des Russes, il
apparrenait a une classe noble.
C'erait cela, Ia guerre: Ia vie pour les uns, pour les au-
tres, Ia cruaure de l'assassinar.
Demeurait cependenr, au moment ou Ia fusillade n'etait
plus qu'en attente, le sentiment de legerete que je ne sau-
The Instant of My Death 7
men, sons of farmers-truly strangers to all combat,
whose only fault was their youth-had been slaughtered.
Even the bloated horses, on the road, in the fields, ar-
rested co a war that had gone on. In reality, how much
rime had elapsed? When the lieutenant returned and be-
came aware the young chatelaine had disappeared, why
did anger, rage, nor prompt him to burn down the Cha-
teau (immobile and majestic)? Because it was the Chateau.
On the facade was inscribed, like an indestructible re-
minder, the date 1807. Was he cultivated enough ro know
this was the famous year of Jena, when Napoleon, on his
small gray horse, passed under the windows of Hegel, who
recognized in him the "spirit of the world," as he wrote to
a friend? Lie and truth: for as Hegel wrote ro another
friend, the French pillaged and ransacked his home. Bur
Hegel knew bow ro distinguish the empirical and the es-
sential. In that year 1944, the Nazi lieutenant had for the
Chateau a respect or consideration that the farms did nor
arouse. Everything was searched, however. Some money
was taken; in a separate room, "rhe high chamber," the
lieutenant found papers and a son of chick manuscript-
which perhaps contained war plans. Finally he left. Every-
thing was burning, except the Chateau. The Seigneurs had
been spared.
o doubt what then began for the young man was the
torment of injustice. No more ecstasy; the feeling that he
was only living because, even in the eyes of the Russians,
he belonged to a noble class.
This was war: life for some, for ochers, the cruelty of
assassination.
There remained, however, at rhe moment when the
shooting was no longer but to come, rhe feeling of light-
ness that I would nor know how to translate: freed from
life? the infinite opening up? Neither happiness, nor un-
8
L'instant de ma mort
rais rraduire: libere de Ia vie? l'inlini qui s'ouvre? Ni bon-
heur, ni malheur. Ni !'absence de crainre et peut-erre deja
le pas au-deJa. Je sais, j'imagine que ce senrimenr in-
analysable changea ce qui lui resrair d'existence. Comme si
Ia mort hors de lui ne pouvait desormais que se heurter a Ia
mort en lui. "Je suis vivanr. Non, ru es mort. "
The Instant of My Death
9
happiness. Nor the absence of fear and perhaps already
the step beyond. I know, I imagine that rhis unanalyzable
feeling changed whar rhere remained for him of existence.
As if rhe death ours ide of him could only henceforth col-
lide with the death in him. "I am alive. No, you are dead. "
10
L'imtant de ma mort
Plus tard, revenu a Paris, il rencontra Malraux. Celui-ci
lui raconta qu'il avait ere fait prisonnier (sans etre re-
connu), qu'il avait reussi a s'echapper, tout en perdant un
manuscrir. "Ce n'etaient que des n!Aexions sur I' art, faciles
a reconstiruer, rand is qu' un manuscrit ne saurait l'etre."
Avec Paulhan, il fir faire des recherches qui ne
que rester vaines.
Qu' importe. Seul demeure le sentiment de legerete qui
est Ia mort meme ou, pour le dire plus precisement, !' in-
stant de rna mort desormais toujours en instance.
The Instant of My Death 11
Later, having returned to Paris, he met Malraux, who
said that he had been taken prisoner (without being rec-
ognized) and that he had succeeded in escaping, losing a
manuscript in the process. "It was only reflections on art,
easy to reconstitute, whereas a manuscript would not be."
With Paulhan, he made inquiries which could only re-
. . .
mam rn vam.
What does it matter. All that remains is the feeling of
lighrness that is death itself or, to put it more precisely, the
instant of my death henceforth always in abeyance.
DEMEURE
jacques Derrida
The first version of this essay was delivered on July 2
4
, 199s. ar a
c ~ n f e r c n c e ar ~ e Catholic Universiry of Louvain, ro open an inrerna-
rronal colloqwum organi2ed under the direction of Michel Lisse.
The proceedings of that colloquium (Passions tk Ia littlraturt: Avtc
}acquts Dmidn) were published in 1996 by Edicions Galiltle with this
as rhe lead essay, enticled "Demeure: Fiction et rtlmoignage."
Demeure
Fiction and Testimony
"Fiction and Testimony" was at first a provisional and
improvised title, a foray of sons, a way of seeing. I must
answer for it coday, given that, rightly or wrongly, I prefer
ro keep ir more or less intact.
1
It can be heard now as a
minor and displaced echo, indeed, a modest translation,
anachronistic and awb.vard bur deliberately distorted:
Dichtttng und Wahrhtit. One can also imagine a twisted
translation, voiltt, as one says in French of a wheel after an
accidem, char its spokes have buckled: Dichtung und Wahr-
heit after che fall.
Dichtung is often mistakenly translated as "fiction. " I
myself have yielded to this bad habit at least once, more
than ten years ago, in a context not unrelated to a certain
history of Belgium-to which I will return in another way
today-the context of rhe relations between fiction and
autobiographical truth. Which is also to say, between liter-
ature and death. Speaking then, shortly after his death, of
my friend Paul de Man, whose memory 1 salute since we
are here in his country, I wrote the following, which you
will perhaps forgive me more easily for citing if I promise
15
Demeure
nor ro do it again and if I also do so to admit without
modesry the shorrcomings of a rranslarion:
Funerary speech and writing would nor follow upon dearh;
rhey work on life in what we call autobiography. And this
rakes place between fiction and truth, Dichnmg und
An obvious allusion ro a distinction berween ficrion and
autobiography char nor only remains undecidable bur, far
more serious, in whose indecidabiliry, as de Man makes
clear, it is impossible ro stand, ro maintain oneself in a sta-
ble or srarionary way. One rhus finds oneself in a fatal and
double impossibiliry: rhe impossibiliry of deciding, bur the
impossibiliry of remaining [demeurer] in the undecidable.
2
I will anempr ro speak of this necessary bur impossible
abidance [demeurance] of the abode [demeure]. How can
one decide whar remains abidingly [a demeure]? How is
one ro hear the term-the noun or the verb, the adverbial
phrases-"abode [Ia demeure)," "that which abides [ce qui
demeure]," "that which holds abidingly [ce qui se tient a
demeure] ," "char by which one must abide [ce qui met en
demeure] "?
Huddled in the shadow of these syllables, dwells [de-
meure]- che troubled grammar of so many sentences. We
hear it coming; ir is ready for everything.
Goethe, for one, never confused Dichtung (equally
poorly translated as "poetry") and fiction. Dichttmg is nei-
ther fiction nor poetry. When he means fiction, Goethe
says Fiction. If, always in irreverent homage to Goethe,
truth becomes testimony here, it is perhaps because, as in
Dichtungund Wahrheit, it will often be a question today of
lies and truth: more precisely, of the biographical or au co-
biographical truthfulness of a wirness who speaks of him-
self and claims ro be recounting nor only his life bur his
death, his quasi-resurrection, a sort of Passion- at rhe lim-
Demeure
of literature. Have no fear, ir will not be a question of
I(S h . . d . I
mv autobiography but of another's. T e tmprovtse ttt e
''Fiction and Testimony" rhus seems in its own way "paro-
distical," ro appeal to another of Goethe's terms. Goethe
hereby character ized a mode of translation and a period, a
of "appropriating" "a foreign spirit" by "transposing"
it into one's own:
1 would call chis period parodistical [he says in Wl-It-
Easurn Divan] , taking this word in its purest sense .... The
French use this procedure in the translarion of all
works . . . . The Frenchman, just as he adapts all foretgn
words to his speech, does so for feelings, rhoughrs and even
objects; he demands rhat a surrogate be found :or for-
eign fruit ar any price, one that has been grown 111 hts own
soil.
3
We are already in the annals of a certain Franco-Germ:m
border. In Louvain-la-Neuve, in chis non-French frontter
zone of French-speaking communities, I will begin by
staying close ro this border, berween de Man and Goethe,
in order to give proper names ro rhe places and
ymies to the landscape. Everything char I put forward wtll
also be magnetized by a history of rhe European wars
between France and Germany, more precisely and closely
related to a certain episode at the end of rhe last world
war and the Nazi Occupation, which srill resonates wirh
us today. .
Once again Michel Lisse has given us everythmg and
has given himself without reserve. He .us h.os-
pitaliry here, at home, in his country and tn hts u.mverstry;
he has given place ro rhis encounter. And of .htmself he
will have given a ride ro chis encounter, that ts, a name,
Passions of Literature.
Who would dare measure our the gratitude for so many
t8 Demeure
gifts? They are boundless and without equi valent, thus
without possible return.
Bur even if from the outset the pri vileged guest rhar I
am must give up rendering thanks as much as he should,
he is nonetheless beholden ro agree in spi rit with the
name chosen by the other, by our host, Michel Lisse, Pas-
siam of Literature, in order to say what this name gives or
what it gives rise ro. The guest must respond ro this name,
more than one name, Passions of Literature: nor respond in
the name of this name or answer for this name, which re-
mains the signature of Michel Lisse, or even bring an an-
swer ro the name, but resonate with it, enter into a reso-
nance, a consonance, or a correspondence with Passions of
Literature. It cannot be a question of doing this in a way
that would be adequate and adjusted bur rather, if possi-
ble, in a way that is true [juste], according to an affinity.
"True" as is sometimes said in the register of voice or
sound. True and also dose-dose, that is, in rhe friendly
relation of a proximity, the vicinity or rhe borders of an
area, nor too far from a threshold, a shore, or a bank.
To attempt this, one would have ro hear what the ride
Passions of Literature means: first of all what Michel Lisse
wanted it ro say, and, more specifically, what he wanted to
have said with these three words or what he mea11t to say.
Even if chis meaning-to-say insists on remaining equivo-
cal, one must nonetheless be ready to secure this equi vo-
cation to a shore, to fix or stabilize it within limits that are
assured, abiding [a demeure] .
But already we are disturbed by the law of number.
There is more than one noun in this name, which a ride
always is. The writing plays with the plural and the singu-
lar: Passions of Literature. Thus there would be more rhan
one passion bur only one literature, literature-and so an
infinite number of problems amass ro cloud our sky. Fur-
Demmre 19
thermore the syntax oscillates between more than one
oenirive. We can guess that this is not simply for fun, and
if ir is a game, it is serious: one will think as readily of the
passions, the many passions for literature, devoted to liter-
ature, as one will of the passions that a literature, literature
itself. literature in the singular in general, can endure, suf-
fer, accept, or refuse. Literature would thus be rhe subject
as well as the object of these passions, as well as the can-
vas, or in any case the place, passive and punishable, to
which events supervene: an enrire history awaits us. And
first the history of number: if there is only one lirerarure,
and if this literature is literature, does chis mean that it
remains parricular or chat it is already universal? Is it only
a mode of writing and production specific to the little
thing that is Europe, a barely national piece of European
history and geography? Or else is it already the Weltliter-
aturwhose concept was forged by Goethe, yet again, for
his time? lndeed these passages in the Convenatio1z with
Eckermann are familiar co us. In them Goethe does not
evoke world literature as a thing of the past, but assigns it
a future task:
ationalliterarure is no longer of importance: it is the time
for world literature, and all must aid in bringing it about.
(January 31, 1827)
Furthermore:
If we have da red proclaim the beginning of a European lit-
erature, indeed a world literature, this does not merely mean
that the various nations will take note of one another and
their creative efforts, for in that sense a world literature has
been in existence for some rime .... We mean, rather, that
living, contemporary writers ... are becoming acquainted
and feel the need to rake action as a group [gmllschaftlich 1
because of inclination and public-spiritedncss.
4
20 Demmre
If I insist on these dares, and I often will, it is to recall
what a date, that is, the event of signature, inscribes in the
relation berween fiction and testimony; but it is also be-
cause the first decades of the last century situate the his-
torical personalities whose figures, both real and literary,
willlarer pass before us: around Goethe will be Napoleon
and then Hegel.
Michel Lisse thought it not unjustified (this is yet an-
other responsibility I leave to him, while thanking him for
ir) to associate my name wi th a very beautiful title, Pas-
sions of Literature. He will thus have encouraged me to
confess, if it is not too late, be it ir1 the future anterior,
that the name and the thing called "literature" remain for
me, to crus day, endless enigmas, as much as they remain
passions. One might as well say-and for this I also wish
to thank him- that by throwing me head first onto liter-
ature, Michel Lisse has reminded me that nothing to this
day remains as new and as incomprehensible to me, at
once very near and very alien, as the thing called litera-
ture. Sometimes and especially-I will explain myself-
the name without the thing.
What is this name? I t should at least be emphasized
that it belongs, like any name, that is, like any noun, to
language. Which means, as always-since language does
not exist, no one has ever encountered it- that it belongs
to a language. Literature is a Latin word. This belonging
has never been si mple: it is a belonging that travels, emi-
grates, works, and is translated. The Latin filiarios1 is ex-
ported and bastardized beyond irs boundaries and affini-
ties but always within the vicinity of its borders. And ir
does not travel under just any condition. It does not use
just any vehicle or figure of transportation. Whatever the
diversity of our mother idioms here, when we say litera-
ture, if it can be supposed that we understand each other,
Demeure
21
we speak and make ourselves understood on the basis of a
Latin root, in rhe constraining hospitali ty or the violent
reception of a larinity. In all European languages, even
languages in which Latin is not dominant, like English
or German, literature remains a Larin word. There is no
thought, no experience, no history of literature as such
and under this name, no world literature, if such a thing
is or remains to come, as Goethe holds somewhat casually,
there is no passion of literature that must not first inherit
what this latinity assumes and thereby show itself capable
of receiving it and, as I would say in French, of suffering
it, which is ro accept, ro receive, to capacitate, to invite, to
translate into itself, to assimilate, bur also to contai n, to
keep thus within its boundaries. The consequences of this
are infinite; there is no question of even beginning to lay
them om here.
Yer let us at least rake note of this first axiom: every-
thing rhat does nor allow itself to be rhus translated or re-
ceived in this Larin word, everything that precedes or ex-
ceeds this history of latinity, cannot seriously and literally,
since here ir: is a matter of the letter, be recognized as Liter-
ature. And to rake account of the larinity in the modern
insti tution of literature- which would have to be distin-
guished from many other proximate things, like tech-
niques, the arrs or the fine arts, rhe other discursive arts
such as poetry, epic or Greek tragedy, belles lemes, etc.-
is nor only to take account of Christendom as the Roman
Church, of Roman law and the Roman concept of the
Stare, indeed of Europe, although this history has counted
greatly in the institution and the constirution oflirerarure,
in irs relation ro religion and politics. Does there exist, in
the strict and literal meaning of the word, something like
literature, like an instirurion of literature and a right to lit-
erature in non- Latin-Roman-Christian culture and, more
22
Demeure
generally, although things are indissociable in their his-
tory, non-European culture?
Nothing is less certain. I need nor call co mind che
tragic and geopolitical seriousness of this problem, which,
for cerrain writers, inrellecruals and journalists today, be-
comes a question of life or violent death. This will also be
rhe horizon of chis presentation. I eire these three cate-
gories (writers, inrellecruals, and journalists), as we do in
the International Parliament of Writers, in order co asso-
ciate in a way char is certainly problematic, bur as victims
of the same murderous persecution, those signatories of
public speech who exercise this speech either in rhe con-
text of what we call literary fiction (Rushdie and all of che
writers who nor only suffer from an international, supra-
scare threat of murder bur suffer death itself, every day on
any street corner, who suffer prison and exile, sometimes
inner exile), or in che conrexr of knowledge, informacion,
or testimony, like all intellectuals in general, scientists,
professors, or journalists, some of whom are heroes or
heroines of testimony today, for example, in my native Al-
geria. Perhaps ir is decent and urgent roday, under the ri-
de Passions of Literature, to begin by saluting those who risk
their lives, those who, driven by a certain unconditional
imperative oflirerarure and testimony, find themselves ex-
posed to assassins because of this-co murderers whose
very crime cannot be determined without raking into ac-
count a certain uncomprehending inability co tolerate lit-
erature and testimony, as well as their common law. Liter-
ature and death, truth and death: chis is rhe subject.
In order to be elaborated, this question concerning the
Larin-Europeanness of literature first assumes belief in a
rigorous demarcation of what ''literature" might mean in a
non-figurative and literal sense. This presupposition may
resist all elaboration. One would chen be faced with a bad
Demeure 23
question or an impossible question. This would already
be, in any case, a question about rhe possibility of rhe
question, as che question of the literality ofliterarity, inso-
far as rhe latter is close in irs destiny to che European her-
itage of Christian Rome. I do nor chink che abyssal per-
spective of chis question is saturated or perhaps even
opened by a historical problematic such as char of Ernsr
Robert Cunius, however interesting and rich his 1948 Eu-
ropean Literature and the Latin Middle Ages may be in ocher
respects. Ir is not certain, for example, that one can follow
Curci us wi rh all rigor when he traces the origin of litera-
cure back to a Homeric foundation: "The founding hero
[heros ktistes] of European literature," he says in effect, "is
Homer. " A formula as contestable, ir seems ro me, as the
one char immediately follows ir: "Its lase universal author
is Goethe."
5
In Greece there is still no project, no social in-
stitution, no right, no concept, nor even a word corre-
sponding ro whar we call, stricto sensu, literature. Bur we
will always have the greatest trouble marking our, pre-
cisely, the question of chis stricture of meaning. To justify
my use of this reference for just another moment and ro
inscribe Goethe, Napoleon, and thus Hegel once more in
our excursus, I will remind you that for Curti us-and this
assertion seems nor co be self-evident-"European lirer-
arure is coextensive in rime with European culture, and
therefore embraces a period of some rwenry-six centuries
(reckoning from Homer ro Goethe)" (p. 12). According to
Curci us, in order co have access to chis literature as a whole
(he does nor say in irs essence bur in irs totality), one would
need co spend rime in each of the European lirerarures,
bur wirhour seeding in them and without nationalism. Lie-
crary nationalism would be a modern reaction in Europe,
like rhe awakening of nationalities, co Napoleon's super-
scare project of hegemony. Whatever one might think of
Demeure
this interesting hypothesis, one must think about it today
at a rime when certain nationalisms are also obscure, in-
deed obscurantist reactions and resistances to new types of
techno-scientific and capitalist internationalization rhar
make uni versalistic or super-stare claims which often hide
interests more specific than is generally acknowledged.
Also, without subscribing to them, I will quote several
lines from Currius. The Weimarian-Roman he sought to
be between the two wars tells us something about the la-
tiniry and the history of literary nationalism; in passing, he
also names Rome, Roman citizenship, and, more broadly,
the romania to which, as he will show further and abun-
dantly, literature owes so much, both according to the ro-
manesque and the romantic.
6
Currius speaks quire calmly
of "grasping [European] literature as a whole," rhus in its
toraliry, without asking himself what we must already pre-
comprehend or problemarize of the essence of the literary
before and with a view to approaching, a fortiori exhaust-
ing, something like the whole of it. In spire of this rheo-
rericaJ or philosophicaJ limit to Curtius's remarks, one may
find ir interesting that he links literary experience to a ju-
ridical institution, to acquired rights, and this from the
outset in the Roman figure of citizenship, of civitas:
To see European literature as a whole is possible only after
one has acqui red citizenshjp in every period from Homer to
Goethe .... One acqui res the rights of cidzenship in the
counrry of European literature only when one has spent
many years in each of its provinces and has frequently moved
about from one to another. One is a European when "one has
become a civis romanus.
Accemive to rhe academic, the university, even rhe de-
partmental causes and effects of this sit uation, Currius
goes on:
Demeure 25
The division of European literature among a number of un-
connected philologies almost completely prevents this.
Though "classicaJ" philology goes beyond Augustan litera-
ture in research, it seldom docs so in reaching. The "mod-
ern" philologies are orienred toward the modern "national
Jiterarurcs"-a concept which was first established after the
awakening of nationalities under the pressure of the Napo-
leonic superstate, which is therefore highly rime-conditioned
and hence still more obsrrucrive of any view of the whole.
How can one nor be tempted to transpose these re-
marks to our present day? Against what novel, super-state
imperialism do all the forms of nationalism or literar! and
cultural ethnocentrism react today? And, correspondmgly,
rhe interest shown them in the university? In 1947 Cur-
rius concl udes with optimism: "Specialization has [in the
course of the thirties and forties] thus opened the way ro
a new universalization. "
7
We cannot unfold here all the reasons one might insist
on this Roman latiniry-or on a certain univerralization
and, as I have tried to show elsewhere,
8
the role played by
this universalization, it seems to me, in what happens in
what we ca11 by another Latin word, religion, in the world
today. For the moment, I will note only one of these rea-
sons. As if by accident, where nothing is fortuitous, the
other word of the ride chosen for this encounter, "pas-
sions," is just as burdened with Christian latiniry.
If one were to unravel the lines of force that semanti-
call y traverse the word "passion," one would discover at
least seven knotted trajectories, which we will have to de-
scribe elliptically and at a telegraphic pace. My hypothesis
is rhar these seven trajectories traverse the text The Instant
of My Death, which Maurice Blanchor several
months ago, and which I will attempt ro read wtth you a
Demeure
little later. I do nor know whether this rexr belongs, purely
and properl y and srrictly and rigorously speaking, ro rhe
space of lireracure, whether ir is a fiction or a testimony,
and, above all, to what excenc ir caBs these distinctions
into question or causes them all to tremble.
Through what place must aJJ these different meanings,
these passionau trajectories of literature, pass in order to
mark there the inscri ption of their seven seals?
1. "Passion" first implies a hisrory in literature that dis-
plays itself as such in Christian culture. Literature forced
upon the land of Christian passion-more precisely, in irs
Roman period-linked to the history of rights, of the
State, of property, then of modern democracy in irs Ro-
man model as well as its Greek one, linked ro the history
of secularization which rakes over from sacrality, before
and through the Enlightenment, linked ro the history of
the novel and of Romanticism.
2. " Passion" also implies the experience of love, of amo-
rous, courtly, knightly, novelistic, romantic passion, where
these have become inseparable from the desire to avow,
from the confessional testimony and from rrurhfulness,
from u//ing the other everything and idmti!Jing with every-
thing, with everyone, opening up rhus new problems of
responsibility before the law and beyond rhe rights of a
scare.
3 "Passion" implies finitude, certainly (the whole Kant-
ian moment of the determination of experience as sensi-
bility, space and time, the receptivity of the intuitus deriv-
ativus) , bur also a certain passivity in the heteronomic
relation to the law and to the other, because this heteron-
omy is nor simply passive and incompatible with freedom
and with autonomy, it is a matter of the passivity of pas-
sion before or beyond the opposition between passivity
and activity. One thinks above all of what Levinas and
Demeure 27
Blanchor say of archi-passivity, particularly when Blan-
choc, unlike Levinas, analyzes che neuter and a certain
neutrality of the "narrative voice," a voice without person,
without the narrative voice from which the "I" posies and
identifies itsel(
4 "Passion" also implies liability, rhac is, imputability,
culpability, responsibility, a certain Schuldigsein, an origi-
nary debt of being-before-the-law.
5 "Passion" implies an engagement rhac is assumed in
pain and suffering, experience without mastery and thus
without active subjectivity. Because this passion, which is
nor active, is nor simply passive either, the entire hisrory
without history of the middle voice- and perhaps of the
neuter of the narrative voice- is opened in passion. If a
differance can only be written in rhe grammar of a certain
middle voice, even if it cannot be confined by such a his-
torical grammar, one might be able ro reduce "differance"
ro another name for "passion," as well as to its interpreta-
tion, the formalization of this polysemy.
6. In memory of irs Christian- Roman meaning, "pas-
sion" always implies martyrdom, that is-as irs name in-
dicates-testimony. A passion always testifies. Bur if the
testi mony always claims ro testify in truth ro the truth for
rhe truth, it does nor consist, for the most part, in sharing
a knowledge, in making known, in informing, in speaking
true. As a promise to make truth, according to Augustine's
expression, where the wimess must be irreplaceably alone,
where the witness alone is capable of dying his own death,
testimony always goes hand in hand with at lease the pos-
sibility of fiction, perjury, and lie. Were this possibility ro
be eliminated, no testimony would be possible any longer;
it could no longer have the meaning of testimony. If testi-
mony is passion, that is because it will always suffer both
having, undecidably, a connection ro fiction, perjury, or
Demeure
lie and never being able or obligated- without ceasing tO
testify- to become a proof.
7 Finally and above all "passion" implies the endurance
of an indeterminate or undecidable limit where some-
thing, some X- for example, literature- must bear or
tolerate everything, suffer everything precisely because it is
not itself, because it has no essence but only functions.
This at least is the hypothesis I would like to test and sub-
mit to your discussion. There is no essence or substance
of literature: literarure is not. It does not exist. It does not
remain at home, abidingly [a demeure] in the identity of
a nature or even of a historical being identical with itself.
It does not maintain itself abidingly [a demeure], at least
if "abode [demeure]" designates the essential stability of a
place; it only remains [demeure] where and if"ro be abid-
ingly [etre a demeure]" in some "abiding order [mise en de-
meure]" means something else. The historicity of irs ex-
perience-for there is one-rests on the very thing no
onrology could essentialize. No exposition, no discursive
form is intrinsically or essentially literary before and our-
side of the function it is assigned or recognized by a right,
that is, a specific intentionality inscribed directly on the
social body. The same exposition may be taken to be lit-
erary here, in one situation or according to given conven-
tions, and non-literary there. This is rhe sign that lirerar-
ity is nor an intrinsic property of this or that discursive
event. Even where it seems to reside [demeurer], literature
remains an unstable function, and it depends on a precar-
ious juridical status. Irs passion consists in this- that it
receives its determination from something other than it-
self. Even when it harbors the unconditional right to say
anything, including the most savage antinomies, disobe-
dience itself, its status is never assured or guaranteed per-
manendy [a demeure], at home, in the inside of an "at
Demeure
home. " This contradiction is irs very existence, irs ecstatic
process. Before coming ro writing, literarure depends on
reading and the right conferred on it by an experience of
reading. One can read the same text-which thus never
exists "in itself"- as a testimony that is said to be serious
and authentic, or as an archive, or as a document, or as a
symprom-or as a work of literary fiction, indeed the
work of a literary fiction that simulates all of the positions
that we have just enumerated. For literature can say any-
thing, accept anything, receive anything, suffer anything,
and simulate everything; it can even feign a trap, the way
modern armies know how to set false traps; these traps
pass themselves off as real traps and trick the machines
designed ro detect simulations under even the most so-
phisticated camouflage.
Why insist on law ro such an extent? In our European
juridical tradition, testimony should remain unrelated to
literature and especially, in literature, ro what presents it-
self as fiction, simulation, or simulacra, which is not all lit-
erature. Wlhen a testifying witness, whether or not he is
explicitly under oath, without being able or obligated to
prove anything, appeals to the faith of the other by engag-
ing himself ro tell the truth- no judge will accept that he
should shirk his responsibility ironicaJiy by declaring or
insinuating: what I am telling you here retains the status
of a literary fiction. And yet, if the testimonial is by law ir-
reducible to the fictional, there is no testimony that does
nor structurally imply in itself the possibility of fiction,
simulacra, dissimulation, lie, and perjury-chat is to say,
the possibility of lirerarure, of the innocent or perverse lit-
erature tha( innocently plays at perverting all of these dis-
tinctions. If this possibility that it seems to prohibit were
effectively excluded, if testimony thereby became proof,
information, certainty, or archive, it would lose its func-
30 Demeure
tion as testimony. In order to remain testimony, it must
therefore allow irself robe haunted. It must allow irself ro
be parasitized by precisely what it excludes from its inner
depths, rhe possibility, at lease, of literature. We will cry ro
remain [demeurer] on rhjs undecidable limit. It is a chance
and a threat, a resource borh of testimony and of literary
fiction, law and non-law, rrurh and non-truth, veracity
and lie, fajthfulness and perjury.
Thus an impossible limic. Untenable. This limit per-
manently [a demeure] swears testimony ro secrecy; it en-
joins testimony ro remajn [demeurer] secret, even where it
makes manifest and public. I can only testify, in the strict
sense of the word, from rhe instant when no one can, in
my place, testify to what I do. What I testify ro is, at that
very instant, my secret; it remains reserved for me. I must
be able to keep secret precisely whar I testify to; it is the
condition of rhe testimony in a strict sense, and this is
why one will never be able to demonstrate, in the sense of
a theoretical proof or a determinate judgment, rhar a per-
jury or lie has in fact taken place. Even an admission will
not be enough.
By tying testimony both ro the secret and ro the in-
stant, by saying at rhjs very instant at this very instant, I
would like to announce a singular testimonial alliance of
the secret and the instant, namely, that which, in the in-
divisible unicity of the instant, is temporalized without
being remporalized permanently [a demeure]. The ques-
tion that immediately arises is one of knowing whether a
secret testimony is impossible. In principle, to testify-
not being a witness bur testifying, arresting, "bearing wit-
ness"-is always to render public. The value of publicity,
char is, of broad daylight (phenomenaliry, openness, pop-
tuariry, res publica, and politics) seems associated in some
essential way with rhat of testimony. The idea of a secret
Demeure 31
resrimony seems rhus a contradiction in terms. Especially
when the experience of the secret irself implies some in-
ner wirness, some third parry in oneself char one calls ro
witness. Testifying to a secret, arresting to there being
some secret without revealing the heart of the secret, is a
critical possibility to which Blanchot, for example, has
been very attentive, as he has been to the possibility of
testifying to rhe absence of attestation when we feel it a
dury to attest before rhe ocher roan arrestation's not being
possible-and char there is here a secret to keep or a se-
cret that one cannot nor keep: rhe avowal of a secret hav-
ing remained secrec.
ln The Step Not Beyond, Blanchot associates arrestation
with the Neuter, the si ngular place of a passion beyond
the opposition of passive and active:
The Neuter, the gentle prohibition against dying, there
where, from threshold to threshold, eye without gaze, silence
carries us into the proximity of the distant. Word still to be
spoken beyond the living and the dead, testifying for the ab-
smu of atustation.
9
This sentence, as is often the case, tells of the double
suffering of rhe same passion, the passion of death in life,
nor only the impossible death, bur the dying prohibited,
rhe "gentle prohibition against dying." The last words (tes-
tifying for the absence of attestation) are italicized. They res-
onate in what is perhaps a contrasting echo with rhe "no
one I testifies for the I witness" (Niemand I zeugt for den I
Zeugen) of Celan, who had died shordy before. No one
testifies for the witness bur "speech ... testifjing for the
absence of attestation," with a "for" whose rich equivoca-
tion remains ungraspable ("in the place of," "on behalf
of," "destined for"). Further, in the same book, three ex-
changes follow one upon rhe other without connecting:
32 Demeure
t Grafted onro every word: the neuter.
t It is as if lu had said to him, saying it in such a frimdly
way: frimdship withdraws from ItS.
t En/need, separaud: wimmes without atwtation, coming
toward us, also coming toward each other, at the de1our of time
1hat they we" called upo11 to make tum.
Where does this turning point of rime turn? What does
chis detour, this turning away or turning of rime have to
do with the rest of the instant, as instant of the secret? To
testify co a secret, what does this mean? How can one tes-
tify to what, in principle, is destined to refuse itself to tes-
timony? The engagement to keep secret is a testimony. The
secret assumes not only that there should be some witness,
be it, as one says, to share in a secret, bur it assumes that
the testimony will not simply consist in knowing or mak-
ing known a secret, in sharing it, but in engaging oneself,
in an implicit or explicit manner, to keeping rhe secret. In
other words, the experience of the secret is, however con-
tradictory this may seem, a testimonial experience. And
consequently the question of number arises: the question
of the one, the two, the three, and the immense question
of the third, of the witness as third party (testis, terstis).
What is the third party ro a secret? What is the place of the
witness? ls the wimess the one who rakes parr in a secret
dual, or is the witness not already a third in the secret?
Testimony seems to presuppose the instance of the
instant that, at that very instant, however, it destroys. It
destroys it as if it were destroying its own condition of
possibility.
For ro testify is always on the one hand to do it at pres-
ent-the witness must be present at rhe stand himself,
without technical imerposition. In the law, rhe testimo-
nial tends, without being able to succeed in this alto-
gether, to exclude alJ technical agency. One cannot send a
Demeure
33
cassette to testify in one's place. One must oneself be pres-
ent, raise one's hand, speak in the first person and in the
present, and one must do chis in order ro testify ro a pres-
ent, ro an indjvisible moment, that is, at a certain point ro
a moment assembled at the tip of an instantaneousness
which must resist division. If that ro which I testify is ru-
visible, if the moment in which I testify is divisible, if my
arrestation is divisible, at that moment it is no longer reli-
able, it no longer has rhe value of truth, reliability, or ve-
racity that ir claims absolutely. Consequently, for testi-
mony there must be tl1e inseam.
And yet, on the other hand, this condition of possibility
is destroyed by the testimony itself. Ocular, auditory, rae-
rile, any sensory perception of rhe witness must be an ex-
perience. As such, a consriwring synthesis entails rime
and thus does nor limit itself ro the instant. The moment
one is a witness and the moment one arrests, bears witness,
the instant one gives testimony, there must also be a tem-
poral sequence-sentences, for example-and, above all,
these sentences must promise their own repetition and
rhus thei r own quasi-technical reproducibi li ty. When I
commit myself co speiling the truth, I commit myself ro
repeating the same thing, an instant later, rwo instants
later, the next day, and for ererniry, in a certain way. Bur
rhis repetition carries the instant outside of itself. Conse-
quently the instant is instantaneously, at this very instant,
divided, destroyed by what ir nonetheless makes possi-
ble-testimony. How is it char rhe instant makes testi-
mony both possible and impossible at rhe same rime? It is
these questions, rhus seated in a formal, elliptical or
shrouded way, chat we will slowl y cry ro bring our.
This instant, at this very instant, I am speaking French,
we are speaking French. This is a testimony. And chis in-
34 Demeure
Stant, as I am saying this, I pass and I have already passed
from I to you. [ am speaking French, we are speaki ng
French. I can only say I am speaking French if it is as-
sumed, as soon as I speak, this instant, in this very instant,
that someone here, now, at least someone is able to un-
derstand this language that I call and is called French, and
is able to form from the outset a we with the one who is
speaking here this instant, with me, consequendy. Thus:
we are immediately more than one, as soon as I or an I
speaks, of course, but in any case from the instant I am
speaking French and say that I am speaking French. [
am not only speaki ng French, I am saying that I am speak-
ing French. I am saying it in French. Even if- hypotheti-
cally-no one here this instant spoke French, no one but
me, well even then, my speech acr in French would none-
theless continue to assume someone, however indetermi-
nate or distant he might be, someone who could under-
stand what I am saying and who would form a we with
me, someone who commits himself ro forming a we with
me-even ifl were alone in speaking French here or even
if I were simply speaking alone. This "we" without which
there would be no testimony, this indeterminate "we" does
not necessarily presuppose any agreement with what l am
sayi ng, any sympathy, any community, any consensus of
any kind, except a minimal way of being, let us say, of an
understanding with the other, with me here in the lan-
guage, the instant it is being spoken, was being spoken,
and the instant I say, "This instant I am speaking French,
we are speaking French," and the inseam l use- and I
will already make note of it in order to return to it later at
greater length-a very idiomatic expression, almost un-
translatable, namely a !'instant. Just as rhe noun, verb, or
adverbial phrases Ia demeure, demeurer, a demeure, en de-
meure will remain untranslatable in their usage. This id-
Demeure
35
iom can no longer be erased; we will experience this, in
rhe rest of testimony, of the secret and of responsibili ty.
A priori or originary in the play of enunciation, as one
says, where it is only or at rhe very least a question of an
undemanding of the language, such an implication of the
"we" - the "we" as a sharing of the idiom and co-responsi-
bility for linguistic competence, so to speak- testifies to
an essence of testimony. There could be no attestation
without it. There could be no witness-nor only no wit-
ness who is present and one who perceives as witness but
no witness who arrests, who bears witness-without speech
ace, of comse, but above all without someone who can be
assumed 1t0 have at least a sufficient mastery of the lan-
guage. This is an endless problem, a dramatic problem
whose critical, political and juridical dimensions it is not
necessary ro underline. To what extent can this compe-
tence be shared? How and on the basis of what metalin-
guistic criteria can it be evaluated? The analysis of this
mastery would call for infinite refinements. In any case,
the juridical concept of arrestation implies a sufficient
mastery of the language, however problematic this concept
may remain. The same concept must at the same time as-
sume an addressee capable of the same mastery, that is, of
hearing and translating in univocal fashion, without mis-
understanding, in the same proportion-but what does
"proportion" mean here, where it is a question of under-
standing the language-and of saying or inferring "we,"
even if the addressee in question should contest, deny, sus-
pect , disbelieve the content of what is said. Furthermore,
he would have to begin by understanding in order to be-
gin contesting the attestation. And, above all, he would
have ro be certain of rhe disti nction between a testimony
and a fiction of testimony: for exampl e, between a dis-
course that is put forward seriously, in good faith, under
Demeure
oath, and a rexr that lies, pretends to rell the rruth, or goes
so far as to simulate the oarh itself, either with a view to
deceiving or with a view to producing a literary work, or,
further, by confusing the limit between the two in order to
dissolve the criteria of responsibility. Iris this possibility, a
possibility char is always open-and which must remain
open for better and for worse-that we are going to dis-
cuss. This is where a passion of literature would rake place,
this is where it would have one of its places, if nor irs
proper place.
Even perjury, in the case of false testimony-false testi-
mony is perjury-even a lie presupposes the structure "I
am speaking," "we are speaking the same language." There
would be no lie otherwise, and this sharing of competence
even reveals the condition of the lie. One must speak rhe
same language to the point of the worst misunderstanding
and in view of the interruption of the we, in view of the
most radical, war-like rupture, dissociative of the "we"-in
the lie, in perjury, in deception, in false testimony, which
is not, I will remind you, testimony that is false. A testi-
mony can be false, that is, mistaken, without being false
testimony- that is, without implicating perjury, lie, a de-
liberate intention to deceive. False testimony assumes this
agreemenr in language. I could nor lie if I did nor presup-
pose that the ocher understands what I am saying to him
as I am saying it to him, as I want to say ir ro him. There
is no lie otherwise. 1 tell you this, you believe it, you un-
derstand what I mean, and you must understand exactly
what I mean for me ro be able to lie or perjure myself.
Thus I can only lie to someone who hears me, who under-
stands me, who understands me in my language the in-
stant I am speaking ro him or to someone of whom iris
assumed that his competence rigorously equals, indeed
marches my own: linguistic, rhetorical, I would even say
Demeure
37
pragmatic competence, for it is not only a matter of words
and discourse-one can lie wordlessly-it is a matter of
all rhe codes involved in a pragmatics, of rhe gestures of
rhe body that accompany, surround, and determine a
speech act, indeed any given speech. It may be a matter of
rhe gaze, the hand, any silent movement in the space of the
so-called body proper. But also, above all, the pragmatic
conventions that surround a discursive act. Let us take the
example of two perfectly identical discourses, identical
down to their commas: the one can be lying if it presents
itself as a serious and non-fictitious address to the other,
bur the other (the same in its content) is no longer lying if
it surrounds itself with the distinctive signs of literary fic-
tion, for example, by being published in a collection that
clearly says: this is literature, the narrator is nor the author,
no one has committed himself here to telling the truth be-
fore the law, thus no one can be accused of lying. But is
this limit ever so clear and can it remain that way?
This very complex statemenr ("this inst.ant, at this very
instant I am speaking French, we are speaking French")
constitutes a testimony whose layered structure would re-
qui re lengthy analyses. It is an exemplary testimony for
many reasons. First, like any testimony, it says something,
it describes something, it makes known, it brings to
knowledge, it informs; one could almost say that it re-
counts, it: gives account: here it is, I am telling you that I
am speaking French. I testify that I am speaking French
and I inform the addressees who understand the language
I am speaking of rhis. Bur rhe fact char they understand
rhe language I am speaking does not prevent one from
dissociating the instant and the instance of this statement
inro two heterogeneous functions: on the one hand, they
learn that I am speaking French, and they understand
this simply insofar as they understand French. Bur on
Demeure
the other hand, at the same time, they understand the
content, namely, that I am telling them I am speaking
French. I could say to them in French: I am speaking En-
glish, and there would also be a content, it would be a
false testimony, but it would be a content distinguishable
from the act of testifying. In the statement with which I
say "I am speaking French" there are thus these two het-
erogeneous strata, even if they come together in a single
occurrence that has become in some sense its own hom-
onym. Thus I testify that 1 am speaking French, and I
inform the addressees who understand the language I
am speaking of this. This is the first condition of testi -
mony. Next, the statement does this, as all testimony
must, in the first person. A testimony is always given in
the first person. And here it is given twice in the first per-
son, because I said: I am speaking French, we are speaking
French-first person singular, first person plural. Finally,
and this is what is most important to me here and what
will bring us back to the bifid structure in some sense of
all testimony: this statement is not merely recounting,
telling, informing, describing, remarking-it does this as
well-it does what it says at this very instant; it cannot es-
sentially be reduced to a relationship, to a narrative or de-
scriptive relation; it is an act. The essence of testimony
cannot necessarily be reduced to narration, that is, to de-
scriptive, informative relations, to knowledge or to narra-
tive; it is first a present act. When he testifies the martyr
does not tell a story, he offers himself. He testifies to his
faith by offering himself or offering his life or his body,
and this act of testimony is not only an engagement, but
his passion does not refer to anything other than its pres-
ent moment.
The Discourse on Method provides a rest of this linguis-
tic situation. In it Oescarres gives the reasons why he
Demeure
39
writes in French, one being his desire to be understood by
women and not only by those "more subtle" ("I wanted it
such that even women would be able to understand some-
thing, and yet for those more subtle still to find matter
enough to occupy their minds"). A cunning strategy, that
of Descartes, at a time when the hospitality offered a cer-
tain French community was not limited to the official
francophone countries, Like this country today, but rather
extended to more than one European court. Yet when the
Discours de fa methode was later translated into Latin, the
translator simply skipped over this passage. By that time
he judged it to be useless or unintelligible, French having
disappeared and with it the performative "I am writing in
French," the theoretical explanation that, in the same lan-
guage, formed one body with it also had to be passed over
in silence.
Let us move on now. This instant, in saying that in this
instant I am speaking French and that we are speaking
French, I am not only testifying in French to the fact that
I am testifying in French. I am signing it untranslatably
or, in any case, in such a way that its translation without
remainder seems difficult if not impossible. And here we
rediscover our initial worry: not only "What is the in-
stant?" but "What does instant mean in French?" And
what does instance-from which it is inseparable- mean,
in the same language?
lr is already difficult to say what these words mean in
French, or in a language with a Latin filiation. This diffi-
culty is increased the instant one rakes into account that
in English, for example, "instant" and "instance" have very
different meanings. The apparent homonyms have very
different meanings. One knows this, one recognizes this;
even so, one has to be cultivated enough, informed, com-
petent, sufficiently educated to do so and to testify to it.
Demeure
This is the whole problem of the relation between a sup-
posed culture, a competence without criteria, and the apti -
tude co bear wirness. For the wimess must both conform to
given criteria and ar the same time invent, in quasi-poetic
fashion, the norms of his arrestation. The stakes are enor-
mous for rhe social, poliricaJ, or juridical order of educa-
tion, as for the exercise of citizenship. And one must know
how co make oneself heard. Must one know how to write?
This is yer another problem. If one rakes the examples of
religious testimony, of revelation or sacred attestation, rhe
dissociation between speech and writing may become quire
acute. Mahomet did not know how to write, supposedly,
which did nor prevent him from speaking and testifying
through his speech. This said, what is indispensable, even
for a witness who does not know how to write, in rhe com-
mon and trivial sense of the word, is that he be capable of
inscribing, tracing, repeating, remembering, performing
the acts of synthesis that writing is. Thus he needs some
writing power, ar the very least, some possibility of tracing
or imprinting in a given element. The difficufty increases
when one notices-the example of English seems simpler
because there are many anglophones among us-that "in-
seance" leads us more in the direction of exemplarity: "in-
stance" is an example, and exemplarity names a concept es-
sential to che problematic of testimony. A wirness and a
testimony must always be exemplary. They must first be
si ngular, whence the necessity of the insranr: I am the onl y
one to have seen this unique thing, che only one to have
heard or to have been pur in the presence of this or chat, ar
a determinate, indivisible instant; and you must believe me
because you must believe me- this is the difference, es-
senti al to testimony, between belief and proof- you must
believe me because Tam irreplaceable. When I resrify, I am
unique and irreplaceable. And at rhe very rip of chis irre-
Demeure
placeability, this unicity, once again, there is the instant.
Even if we have been several ro participate in an event, to
have been presenr at a scene, the wirness can only testify
when he asserts that he was in a unique place and where he
could testify to this and char in a here-now, that is, in a
pointed instant tbar precisely supports this exemplarity.
The example is nor subsri rurable; bur at the same rime the
same aporia always remains: this irreplaceability must be
exemplary, that is, replaceable. The irreplaceable must al-
low itself to be replaced on the spot. In saying: I swear to
tell the truth, where I have been the only one to see or hear
and where I am the only one who can arrest to it, this is
true to the extent that anyone who in my plAce, at that in-
scant, would have seen or heard or touched rhe same thing
and could repeat exemplarily, universally, the truth of my
testimony. The exemplarity of the "instant," that which
makes it an "instance," if you like, is that it is si ngul ar, li ke
any exemplarity, singular and universal, singular and uni-
versalizable. The si ngular must be universalizable; this is
the testi monial condition. Simultaneously, at rhe same in-
stant, in the "I swear, you must believe me, " I am claiming,
I am demanding, I am postulating the possible and neces-
sary universalization of chis singularity: anyone who in my
plnce, ere., would confi rm my testimony, which is rhus
both infinitely secret and infinitely public; and this is why
I commit myself in advance ro repeating, and I begin by
repeating. What I say for the first rime, if ir is a testimony,
is al ready a repetition, ar least a repeatabili ty; iris already
an icerability, more than once ar once, more chan an insranr
in one instant, at the same time; and that being the case,
rhe instant is always divided at irs very point, at the point
of its writing. Tr is always on the verge [en instance] of be-
ing divided, whence rhe problem of idea.lization. To the ex-
lent that it is repeatable, the singular insranr becomes an
42 Demeure
ideal instant. The root of the testimonial problem of techni
is to be found here. The technical reproducibility is ex-
cl uded from testimony, which always calls for the presence
of the live voice in the first person. Bur from the moment
that a testimony must be able to be repeated, techni is ad-
mitted; it is introduced where it is excluded. For this, one
need not wait for cameras, videos, typewriters, and com-
puters. As soon as the sentence is repeatable, that is, from
its origin, the instant it is pronounced and becomes intel-
ligible, thus idealizable, it is already instrumentalizable and
affected by technology. And virruality. It is thus the very
instance of the instant chat seems to become exemplary:
exemplary in the very place where it seems unique and ir-
replaceable, under the seal of unicity. And it is perhaps
here, with the technological both as ideality and prosthetic
irerability, that the possibility of fiction and lie, simu-
lacrum and literature, char of the right to literature insinu-
ates itself, at the very origin of truthful testimony, autobi-
ography in good faith, sincere confession, as their essential
compossibility.
Insofar as it rakes on the responsibility of saying what is
true, testimony is thus always a matter of instant and in-
stance or exemplary "instance." In more than one lan-
guage. In more chan one language, nor only because I said
instant and "instance" (I could have said lnstiindigkeitand
engaged in a lengthy reading ofHeidegger; this will be for
another time) but in more than one language because if it
is already audibl e at the threshold of the most idiomatic,
the most untranslatable singularity, this appeal to univer-
salization is an appeal to rranslation. As idiomatic as it
must remain, a testimony claims to be translatable. " J am
speaking French," this instant, as unrranslarable as it may
be, can only be a testimony purveyor of truth if irs trans-
latability is also promised. One must be able ro translate
Demeure
43
this sentence. This appeal to insramaneousness as stigmi,
as si ngular point of time, thus conveys the aporia of testi-
mony. Besides its juridical-administrative meaning, in
French instance also means, among other things, "immi-
nence." We are now standing in this imminence- we will
experience ir in an instant.
To rest this exemplarity of the instance and the disturb-
ing complicity between fiction and testimony, I will appeal
ro the example of an enormous text by Maurice Blanchor.
It rakes up just a few pages and appeared less than a year
ago. The Instant of My Death wiiJ not simply illustrate what
we are saying. J want to follow it to the point where, tak-
ing us beyond all the categories upon which we roo easily
rely, it helps us ro render them problematic, fragile, uneasy.
It will be a question of autobiography. Is this only be-
cause a certain ''I'' speaks of itself, recounts itself or con-
fesses itself as another? We will analyze the strange posi-
tion of the narrating ego in this narrative. No, ir will be a
question of autobiography to the extent that it presents it-
self as testimony. ln essence a testimony is always autobi-
ographical: it reUs, in the first person, the sharable and un-
sharable secret of what happened to me, to me, to me
alone, the absolute secret of what I was in a position to
live, see, hear, touch, sense, and feel. But the classical con-
cept of arrestation, like that of autobiography, seems by
law to excl ude both fiction and art, as soon as the truth,
all the truth and nothing but the truth, is owi ng: By law,
a testi mony must not be a work of art or a fiction. In tes-
timony, Wahrheit excludes Dichtung. I will recall in pass-
ing that the subricle or surride of Dichttmg rmd Wahrheit
is Aus meinen Leben: "of my life," "drawn from my life,"
"based on my life," "from my life"-ofasfrom. One often
translates chis as "Recoll ections of My Life."
44 Demeure
As an epigraph to this reading, one could inscribe a
thousand earlier texts of Blanchor that seem always to
have announced The Instant of My Death. I will choose
only one. It gives the condition under which autobio-
graphical testimony presents itself "in the manner of a
work of art," in particular (this is why I am choosi ng it in
honor of my hosts [hates], of you yourselves, of our hosts
or of the guests [hates] that we are for one another here in
different senses), this fragment names a certain hospitality,
the place of the reader as another and of the other as a
guest/host [hate] to whom this autobiographical witness
and artist confesses nothing-in short, gives nothing,
nothing to be known except his death, his inexistence, ad-
dressing himself to another in whom he trusts the instant
that he confides everything as nothing to him.
The hospitaliry of death itself This is a defi nition in The
Writing of the Disaster. Here, in the book that bears this
name, one of the diamonded statements, stamped with a
black diamond like a musical note (in plainsong, the dia-
mond is half a breve, it says the other as guest/host [hore]
for an autobi ography, a hostobiography which, under cer-
tain conditions (the surviving in suicide) advances in the
manner of a work of art. Nor as a work of art, but rather-
which is nor altogether the same thing-in the manner of
a work of art, perhaps by pretending to be a fiction and
rhus as the fiction of a fiction, as if it were a matter of rak-
ing responsibiliry by no longer answering for it and of
manifesting the truth by leaving one the responsibiliry of
receiving it through lie or fiction.
To wri te one's aurobiography, in order either to confess
or co engage in self-analysis or in order to expose oneself ro
the gaze of all, in the manner of a work of art, is perhaps co
seck to survive, bur through a perpetual suicide- tour/ inso-
for as frngmentnry denth.
Demeure
45
To write (of ) oneself is ro cease to be, in order to confide
in a guestlhosr [hore]-the other, a reader-who will hence-
forth have as charge and as life nothing bur your inexisrence.
10
This allusion to the "total insofar as fragmentary death"
already places us in literature. It recalls what Goethe,
again, already said of literature, even if it be Weltliteratur,
namely, that it was "the fragment of fragments." .
At this instant The Instant of My Death rhus promtses us
a narrative or a testimony-signed by someone who tells
us in many ways and according to every possi ble tense: I
am dead, or I wilL be dead in an instant, or an instant ago
1 was going to be dead. Someone to to
speak to us, not only of his death, but ofhs.death tn the
sense of the Latin de, in the sense of from hts death: not
aus meinen Leben as in Dichttmg und Wahrheit, of my life
from my life, but on the contrary, one might say, from my
death, from the place and from the taking-place, better yet,
from the having-taken-place, already, of my death. .
Allow me ro call to mind an essential kind of generaliry:
is the witness not always a survivor? This belongs to the
structure of testimony. One testifies only when one has
lived longer than what has come to pass. One take ex-
amples as tragic or full of pathos as the of the
death camps. Bur what ties testimony to survtvance re-
mains a universal suucrure and covers the whole elemen-
tary field of experience. The witness is a survivor, the
parry, the terstisas testis and superstes, the one who survtves.
This surviving speech must be as exemplarily
a\ the instance of the instant from which it speaks, the m-
of death as irreplaceable, as "my death,'' on the sub-
jeer of which no one other than the dying person can tes-
tify. [ am rhe only one who can testify ro my death-on
the condition that I survive ir.
Bur at this instant, the same instant, good common
Demeure
sense reminds us: from the viewpoint of common sense,
I cerrainly cannot testify to my death-by definition. I
cannot say, according to common sense, I should nor be
able ro say: I died or I am dead. Much has been written,
I roo have written on occasion, abour rhe impossible pos-
sibility of the statement "I am dead," on the expression
of Valdemar, who wakes up ro say " I am dead," rhis "I
am" of the "I am dead" that is both present and parr of a
past perfect. If there is a place or an instance in which
there is no wirness for rhe wirness or where no one is wit-
ness for the witness, ir would be death. One cannot tes-
tify for the wirness who testifies to his death, but, in-
versely, I cannot, I should nor be able ro, testify ro my
own death, only to the imminence of my death, to irs in-
stance as deferred imminence. I can testify to the immi-
nence of my death. And in fact, we recalled earlier thar
instance (where rhe French word seems untranslatable,
like the resrimony of my death) could signify more rhan
one thing: nor only, in the language of rhe law, the place
of administrative or juridical authority, the place of aver-
dict, such as a magistrates' court or the proceedings of a
courr of justice, bur also imminence and deferral, the
added delay preceding the "thing" thar is pending [en in-
stance] because it cannot be long in coming, to rhe point
of being on the point of arriving. One also says of a letter
that is being held in general delivery that ir is "on hold
[en instance]" awaiting delivery, and this sufferance of the
letter is also the passion of the being in abeyance [de !etre
en instance] . Bur what can an instant in abeyance (tm in-
stant en instance] be then? Yet here is the last word of the
text before us:
The instant of my death henceforth always in abeyance [en
instance].
Demeure
47
Whoever is even a bit familiar with the work of Blan-
chot knows well that rhe themes of testimony and rhe ab-
sence of arrestation, the impossible dying, the imminence
of an impossible dying, the impossible necessary death
have not lain in wait for The lnstam of My Death. "An im-
possible necessary death" is already The Writing of the Dis-
aster. Death is nor impossible but necessary, nor is death
impossible and necessary, no, the impossible and the
necessary are neither connected by an "and" nor discon-
nected by a "bur." Death is, in a single stroke, rhe "im-
possible necessary," where impossibility and necessity
both reciprocally refer ro and co-implicate each other,
borh subject and arrribure each to rhe orher abidingly [a
demeure]. Following a colon, Blanchor wonders about
rhese rwo words that form without forming an odd
phrase. There is nothing forruirous in the fact rhar this
questioning mentions "fi ction" and the fiction specifi c to
an aurhor:
an Impossible necessary death: why do these words [im-
possible necessary death, rhus]-and the tmexperimud expe-
rienu ro which they refer-escape comprehension? Why
this collision, this refusal? Why erase them by making them
into a fiction specific to an author?
11
What runs through this testimony of fiction is rhus the
singular concept of an "unexperienced experience." Noth-
ing seems more absurd ro common sense, in effect, rhan
an unexperienced experience. Bur whoever does nor rry
to thi nk and read the part of fiction and thus of literature
rhat is ushered in by such a phrase in even the most au-
rhenric testimony will nor have begun ro read or hear
Blanchor. This holds for the majority of his political pros-
c:curors, among others. They are certainly not wrong ro be
inreresred in Blanchor's politics, on rhe contrary, but they
..
Demeure
should ar least begin by reading him and learning to read
him- in panicular, where fiction plays such a dangerous
and disconcerting game with the seriousness or veracity
of testimony. If a witness came to the stand, swore to cell
rhe truth, and chen broke into a discourse about rhe "un-
experienced" in his "experience"-well, one could bet
that the judge would no longer rake him seriously, would
either accuse him of perjury and rurn him over to rhe po-
lice or dismiss him as irresponsible and nor knowing or
believing what he says and have him examined by a psy-
chiatrist right away: in this way one could bring in all the
characters, the "police commissioner" and the doctors
(the oculist or the "specialists in mental illness") whose
authority [instances] is mentioned at the end of The Mad-
ness of the Day, a narrative which is close in many regards
to The Instant of My Death and which, after aJI, perhaps
recounts the same thing. The literary critic or the univer-
sity professor who would be Blanchor's political prosecu-
tor and who does not take it upon himself to begin by
reading and thinking, with Blanchot, about these strange
things in the entanglement of testimony and fiction,
would in rhe best-case scenario (the hypothesis of the
greatest digni ty and the least "good conscience") be in the
position of rhe police commissioner who is on the side of
the doctor-both of whom are already staged in the lit-
erature about which they claim to reach a diagnosis or to
pass judgment. Police commissioners and specialists in
mental illness are needed; but rhey are defi ned, in their
authority [instance]. their position, their right, their sta-
tus, as the very ones who rely on a naive concept of testi-
mony, requiring a narrative of common sense when its
madness is pur to the test of the impossible. Incompetent
in their supposed competence, precisely. They confess, in
short, without knowing it, or rather they reveal a symp-
Demeure
49
rom: they neither read nor think about what they judge
Jnd diagnose.
In France, in French, in a communi ty of French speak-
ers-for it is of this and from here that we are speaking,
just as we are spealcing of a war at this border when the
line of demarcation also passes through occupied France,
in France and in French, from the instant there is instan-
taneity and also me instance, the juridical instance and the
instance as imminence, the instance of "on the point of."
Instantaneity is only the last instance when it is a matter of
"dying." The following is also wrirren in The Writing of the
Disaster:
Dying is, speaking absolutely, the incessant imminence
whereby life nonetheless endures by desiring. The immi-
nence of what has always already taken place.
12
"The imminence of what has always already taken
place": this is an unbelievable tense. Ir seems ro deport
what has always, from all rime, already taken place toward
the coming of the to-come. Indeed one must say zmbe-
lievable, for insofar as al l testimony essentially appeals to a
certain system of belief, to faith without proof, to the act
of faith summoned by a kind of transcendental oath, weU,
faith in a temporal order, in a certai n commonsense or-
deri ng of time, is what guarantees the everyday concept,
especiaUy the juridical concept and the dominant concept
of arrestation in European culture, that in which literature
has been established, thus confirming or dist urbing the
very order that conveys it. Imminence, the instance of
whar will already have taken place, will be in question in
The Instant of My Death. Death will come, there is a sus-
pension, a last suspensive delay, an interruption of rhe
death sentence. Bur what will come, what is coming at
Demeure
me, this is what will already have taken place: death has
already taken place. I can testify to it, because it has al-
ready taken place. Yet this past, to which I testify, namely,
my death itself, bas never been present.
Another sentence of The Writing of the Disaster says the
same-in short, the same thing otherwise. If I quote once
again, bur less often than I might, these texts prior to The
Instant of My Death, it is ro mark-although it is alto-
gether new, novel, singular and disturbing- that this last
narrative also marks the repetition of what will have al-
ways already been said in Blanchot's earlier texts, giving
them to us ro be read again, confirmi ng and thereby re-
launching the singular anachrony of time of which we are
speaking, and of which the rexr speaks in the first place:
I die before being born
says another sentence in The Writing of the Disaster. As
impossible as it may be to attest to this, as it would be co
a present char should normally have presenced itself, death
has already taken place, and I can testify to it. Blanchot
attested to an earlier death, long before The Instant of My
Death; he did so in an informal address that is almost
monologicaJ or soliloquized, addressed co itself: "you are
dead" are the last words before the epilogue of The Instant
of My Death, a "you are dead" ("I am alive. No, you are
dead") which reports (the consrative of a death report),
judges or performatively threatens, accuses, judges (you
are condemned to death, die: a death sentence, a sencenc-
ing, a verdict of the judge or doctor) and threatens as one
apostrophes an enemy by telling him, "Pur your hands
up, you are dead. " Yet these last words, these nexr to last
words of The Instant of My Death, "you are dead," were al-
ready co be found, more than ten years earlier, in The
Writing of the Disaster as the very definicion of disaster, or
Demeure
rather, of rhe writing-of-disaster, as an undecomposable
phrase that destines writing for disaster and disaster for
writing.
+ Dying means: you are dead already, in an immemorial
past, by a death chat was not your own, which you have thus
neither known nor lived, but under the threat of which you
believe you are called to live; you await it henceforth in the
future, constructing a future to make it possible at last, pos-
sible as something chat will rake place and will belong co the
realm of experience.
To write is no longer to pur in rhe future a death always
already pasr, bur co accept char one must endure it without
making it present and without making oneself present to it;
it is co know chat death has taken place even though it has
not been experienced, and to recognize it in the forgerring
that it leaves. whose traces, which can be erased, call upon
one to exempt oneself from the cosmic order, where disaster
makes the real impossible and desire undesirable.
This uncenain death, always anterior, the arrestation to a
past without present, is never individual, just as it overflows
the whole.
13
By speaking of a death that, in order to be irreplaceable
and because it is unique, is nor even individual-"never
individual," he says-Bianchot puts forward a statement
that would appear troublesome even ro the jemeinigkeit,
the "mine every time," which according to Heidegger es-
sentially characterizes a Dasein chat announces itself to it-
self in irs own being-for-death.
Let us come now to The Instant of My Death. ln ir
Blanchot recounts otherwise how at rhe end of rhe war-
and we know this precisely from testimonies, different
and varied testimonies- during an episode recounted to
us by the text, the author himself was sropped by rhe Ger-
52 Demeure
mans. He was placed before a wall ro be executed. He was
going ro be execured and death had already arri ved, had
already been decided, decreed; death was imminent and
inescapable in a cenain way, just as ir was for Oosro-
yevsky-we will return to the specter of Dosroyevsky Iacer
?n, for there is a Russian dimension ro this story. At this
msrant, he escapes execution. He slowly gees away, with-
our fleeing, under conditions that are barely believable.
He is telling the story, and it happened. At the risk once
again of being violent coward Blanchor- who is discre-
tion itself-! will dare co do what I think I have never
done before in my life, but what I judge ro be necessary
here for the reading I would like to attempt, in order to
place an allegedly non-literary and non-fictional testi-
mony in relation to a testimony presented in a literary
mode. I will therefore quote the fragment of a letter 1 re-
ceived from Blanchor last summer, just a year ago, almost
to ~ h e day, ~ if tod.ay were the anniversary of the day on
whtch I recetved this letter, after July 20. Here are its first
two lines; they speak of the anni versary of a death rhat
rook place without taking place. Blanchor wrote me thus,
on July 20, first making note of rhe anniversary dare:
July 20. Fi fty years ago, r knew the happiness of nearly being
shot to death.
Like this sentence, this letter does nor belong ro what
we call literarure. It testifies, as I am testifying here, in a
space supposedly unrelated to fiction in general and rhe
institution of literature in particular. Bur ir says rhe same
thing. lr testifies to the reality of rhe event rhar seems ro
form the referent of this literary narrative enrided The In-
stant of My Death and published as literary fi ction. As we
will see, rhe text testifies to this strange evenr in a way that
Demeure
53
is abyssal, elliptical, paradoxical, and, for that matter [au
demeurant], undecidable.
We have only discussed rhe ride, The fmtallt of My
Denth. The entire narrati ve is but a gloss, a justification
and expans ion of a ride that speaks of itself and for itself.
The first words, incipit: "JE ME SOUVIENS d'un jeune
hom me; I REMEMBER a young man." The "je" that says "je
me" is not the real author, of course, bur a narrator; we
know char as soon as we approach this book as a literary
rhing with fictional status. The self-reference of the "I"
char does nor speak in Blanchor's voice presents a narrator.
This narrator is engaging in an ace of memory. He attests
ro remembering someone, someone else, a young man.
Already from rhe incipit there is a division of the subject.
And more than one age. Aside from rhe presumed author,
there are two, and number, two instances: the narrator de-
claring rhar he remembers another, and the orher; until
the end, the story announces itself as the narrative of what
happened to a third person, as what happens to him, "he,"
rhe third parry. Until rhe end, until the "I" returns at the
end, and the "you." This passage to a "he," in the third
person, rhe young man, of course signifies the cliscrerion
of the literary process, the ellipsis of someone who is nor
goi ng ro put himself forward and expose himself indis-
creetly. This is the difference between rhe letter I received
lasr July and this literary ficrion. Bur rhe third also marks
a division introduced into rhe identity of Maurice Blan-
chor, as inro the identities of the narrator and of the
young man of whom rhe narrator speaks. Such a division
dissociates them within themselves starring from the
event, chat is, rhe event of death rhar happened ro him,
that happened to both of them- for in a certain way borh
die-bur also, ifl can say chis, to both of rhem plus one,
to all three of them: Blanchor, rhe narrator, and the young
54 Demeure
man. Death happened to him-them, it arrived to divide
the subject of this story in some sense: it arrived at this di-
vision, bur it did nor arrive except insofar as it arrived
(managed) thus to divide the subject.
I REMEMBER a young man- a man srill young-prcvemed
from dying by death irself.
1
4
By chis we understand that what happens to him is not
the dying, it is nor dying. It is nor dying bur following a
verdict that is an order to die: die, you are dead, you are
going to die. The order to die comes to prevent him from
dying ("prevented from dying by death itself"}, and rhe
testimony will in some sense recount this division, in its
dividend and its divisor. From dying, he is prevented by
death itself This singular division is the true theme of a
testimony that will testifY, in sum, to an "unexperienced
experience": being "prevented from dying by death it-
self-and perhaps the error of injustice."
One could spend years on cllls sentence. On the per-
haps, first of all, whose modality will render fictional and
fragile everything that follows, rhe entire narrative and the
interpretation ir brings into play. One does nor testify in
court and before the law with "perhaps." Furthermore, in
principle, an error and an injustice are nor the same thing.
They are even incompatible: ro do wrong by mistake is
nor an injustice. Here, injustice would have been a mis-
take, would have been done by mistake; in other words, ir
would have been just for him ro die-perhaps. An error
was made, thanks to which an injustice was committed,
and we will see later how the randomness of the error
committed rhe injustice, the injustice as error. Two or-
ders- the ethical and, let us say, the theoretical or episte-
mological- intersect here, even though they remain in-
compatible: an error and an injustice.
Demeure
55
My gestures are of a great violence; I know chis, I con-
fess it. It is obvious that Blanchor is publishing this, I
would nor dare say at the end of his life, for he is describ-
ing to us the instance of his death from the moment he
was still this young man. But he is publishing it very lace
in his life. This suspension has lasted fifty years; his letter
says so. But at a moment when his testimony and his ar-
restation have become more testamentary than ever, like
all of his texts and all of his letters, he can always be sus-
peered of making public this testimony in a political space
in which for some time, as we know, trials, accusations,
and even verdicts on rhe subject of his political past have
been multiplying. At this moment, he could be suspected
of the abuse of a fiction, char is, of a type of text whose au-
thor is not responsible, not responsible for what happens
to the narrator or the characters of the narrative, nor an-
swerable before the law for the truthfulness of what he
says. One might insinuate that he is exploiting a certain ir-
responsibility of literary fiction in order ro pass off, like
contraband, an allegedly real testimony, this rime nor fic-
tional, coming ro justify or exculpate in a historical reality
the political behavior of an author it is easy to identify
with both the narrator and the central character. In this
space, one can pur forward the hypothesis that Blanchor
intends finally ro mark, by means of a fiction so obviously
testi monial and autobiographical in appearance (auto-
rhanatographical in truth), char he is someone rhe Ger-
mans wanted ro shoot in a situation where he would visi-
bly have been on the side of rhe Resistance fighters. One
can always call into question the purity of this testimony
and sense calculation in it. I am convi nced that calculation
is nor simply absent. How could it be? And in the name of
what would one want co require char it be absent, forcing
oneself rhus w deprive it of any justification or explana-
Demeure
tion of itself? lr is therefore probably not unjustified, bur
there is this calculation and we must rake it into account
in our readi ng. Such a calculation may be extremely com-
plex and differentiated. On the one hand, non-literary tes-
timony is no more a proof than is testimony in the form
of a literary fiction. On the orher hand, the author of the
rwo, always the sole wirness to that of which he speaks,
may speak truly or falsely, speak truly here and falsely
there, interweave a series of interpretations, implications,
reflections, unverifiable effects around a woof or a warp
objectively recognized and beyond suspicion. We will
study rhe meshes of the net formed by rhe limits between
fiction and testimony, which are also interior each to t he
other. The net's texture remains loose, unstable, perme-
able. Historical through and through, this texture is the
texture of literature and all of the passions it suffers and
sustai ns, to which it testifies as its truth without rrurh, all
of the passions with which ir is swollen or which catch
themselves in it.
The following paragraph recalls a dare in rwo shore sen-
tences, with a precision whose economy is admirable, as is
the parsimony [principe d'tpargne] of this entire narrative.
As in the beginning of Death Sentence, the narrator estab-
lishes indubitable reference ro an objective dare (1944)
and historical situation known to all:
The Allies had succeeded in gerring a foothold on French
soil. The Germans, already vanquished, were struggling in
vain wirh usdess ferociry.
This notation installs us in the indubitable landscape of
historical reality. It stamps a seal of historical realism on
everything that follows. The testimony thar follows would
rhus involve a reality.
Demeure
57
In a large house (the Chateau, ir was called), someone
knocked at the door rather rim idly.
It is of the utmost importance rhar ir be a castle here, or,
more precisely, what bears rhe name Castle, of which one
~ a y s , in society: that is rhe Chateau. We evoked Dos-
royevsky earlier. Kafka also always remains close to Blan-
chot, as we know. Visibly rhe young man, rhe other, the
one who wiU die without dying, resides in a Castle to
which someone wants access, at whose door "someone
knocked," and "he" probably owes his life ro rhe fact that
this house bears the name Ch!iteau. The Germans or those
who, as we will see, are not Germans but Russians, will
pause, will show a certain resrrainr before the Chateau, at
rhe entrance to the residence [demmre]. To rhis name,
"the Chateau," a name thought to incorporate into stone
a name, a family, a lineage-to this name the young man
will owe his respects, about which he will speak further.
There would be a share of injustice here; and a sorr of im-
plicit social or social-historical critique, as will become
clear later on. The name "the Chateau," the fact that it
is an ennobled bourgeois residence [dtmtuu] in some
sense and as such respected by all of Europe, even post-
revolutionary Europe, this will play a determining role in
the story, that is, in a death without death, which was per-
haps "the error ofinjusrice."
In a large house (the Chateau, it was called), someone
knocked at the door rather timidly. I know that the young
man ...
One immediately sees rhat rhe " I," rhe narrator of d1e
rcxr, the inn.er signatory, is the one who accompanies the
young man, we might say, rhus displacing another of
Blanchor's tides. He knows in advance; he has an absolute
58 Dnneure
knowledge in advance of everything that happens ro the
young man; for he is the same, he is the one of whom the
young man could say: he is the one who accompanies me.
He knows in advance:
I know that the young man ...
Everything takes place as if the narrator were shadow-
ing this man of another age, as if he were following this
young man at every instant, step by step, in order to tes-
tify to what happens or does not happen to him. As if
there were, in the end, only a difference in age between
them, marked by the expression "rhe young man." (One
can imagine someone showing a photograph: look at me
at this age, when I was a young man; I still remember it,
the young man I will have been.)
I know that the young man came to open the door to guests
[haus] who were presumably asking for help.
What the narrator knows, describes, attests ro is what
takes place in the young man's head: I know that chis
young man went to open the door because he thought,
mistakenly, that those who were knocking on the door
were asking for help: hOtes, again.
This time, a howl: "Everyone outside."
The troop forces the occupants out of rheir home. A
classic scene and situation under the occupation by rhe
Germans, as under any foreign occupation. The violence
consists in expelling or dragging the occupants from the
residence [demeure]:
"Everyone outside."
A Nazi lieutenant ...
Demeure
59
Until this point, rhe narrator has said "the Germans. "
Now he is specific, and this precision sounds like a politi-
cal stance, already an accusing objectivarion that opposes
the narrator to the "Nazi" of whom he speaks:
A Nazi lieutenant, in shamefully normal French, made the
oldest people exit first, and then rwo young women.
"Outside, outside."
"This instant, I am speaking French," the Nazi could
say, as we were saying earlier. It is a Nazi who spoke
"shamefully normal French." Shameful for whom? Shame-
ful at least fo:r a certain French Nazism, a Nazism whose
language is French, a Nazism that has been naturalized
French or a French that has been naturalized Nazi. An-
other accusation, rhus, discreetly but clearly aimed at an
implicit contamination where it is essential, internal, and
fatal-the contamination through language, the complic-
ity in language. The Nazi speaks the same language we do,
the language of my attestation itself: this is what is irreme-
diably shameful and what any arrestation must begin by
avowing, becoming thus a confession, a political confes-
sion, before any determinable fault.
This time, be was howling.
An attestation that is punctuated by instantaneous
seizures, a discontinuous series of instantaneous seizures. A
little further up the page, it was "This rime, a howl," which
is echoed a few lines later: "This time, he was howling."
The young man, however, did not try to flee but advanced
slowly, in an almost priesdy manner.
The young man is recognized, if he is seen. Here, to the
furious impatience of the officer- or of anyone who still
6o
Demeure
howls today in a posicion of power, in good conscience,
for the vict im, the hostage, or the scapegoat- the young
man opposes a slowness which can bur exasperate the
Nazi in whatever language he is spealcing. We must cake
chis slowness into account.
The lieutenant shook him, showed him the casings, bullets;
there had obviously been fighting; the soil was a war soil.
Although the narrative remains very elliptical, one rakes
it that if the "Nazis" have invaded, it is because rhe lieu-
tenant suspects Resistance fighters in the area. He wants
co take hostages, no doubt, ro shoot Resistance fighters or
their accompl ices. By showing the young man che bullets
and casings, the lieutenant accuses him of belonging co
~ h e Resistance, or of being the enemy. He is an enemy; he
IS treated as an enemy, as an enemy of the Nazis. This is
essential co the testimonial message char passes into che
blood of reality through the epidermis of fiction.
The lieutenant choked in a bizarre language ....
Earlier the Nazi spoke "shamefully normal French."
Any Nazi, whatever his nationality, can speak shamefully
normal French. He can speak whatever language from
whatever continent. Here, he is cholcing. Earlier he was
howling; now, he is choking "in a bizarre language," as if
he were changing languages or rediscovering che truth of
his own, the Nazi language which is nor a language.
And puning the casings, the bullers, a grenade under the
nose of the man already less young (one ages quickly), he
distincrly shouted ...
The munitions exposed are rhus exhibits, evidence in a
rrial, clues chat can dispense with testimony. The nora-
Denuure
don in parentheses, "(one ages quicldy), " marks a sort of
parenthesis of rime that recalls the parenthesis: namely,
char times passes without passing, like a parenthesis, in
parentheses, the measure of rime remaining here an ab-
solutely heterogeneous measure. The rime chat separates
rhe moment that a Nazi shoves casings in one's face from
che moment he threatens one with death is both much
shorter and much longer: it is an entire lifetime in an in-
scant, an eternity. A change of age. What will happen will
have opened another rime. Absolute anachrony of a rime
our of joint. The notations concerning age rhus have a
great importance. The narrative, we will remember, be-
gins with "a man still young," here "already less young
(one ages quickly)," whereas, according to the objective
and realistic chronology of rhe narrative, barely a few
seconds have elapsed. These rwo rimes, chat of objectiv-
ity and that of phantasm or fi ctional simulacrum, which
is also that of testimonial experience, remain absolutely
incommensurable:
The lieutenant ... disrincdy shouted: "This is what you
have come to."
Accusation and uial. What becomes of the witness, or
rae her the narrator, who is here the wirness for the witness?
o one testifies for the witness, says Celan. Here the nar-
rator testifies for the witness, char is, for the young man.
The witness for the witness, rhe narrator, testifies first for
an accused. The latter will be condemned co death, but
first he is an accused. The narrator must testify co a fun-
damental accusation, already co a verdict chat leads co
death. "This is what you have come co."
The Nazi placed his men in a row in order co hit, according
to the rules, the human target.
Demeure
This is what is called a "firing squad." The men are
there, ready with their guns, and it will be a question of
shooting.
The young man said, "At least have my family go inside." So
it was: the aunr (ninecy-four years old); his mother, younger;
his sister and sister-in-law; a long, slow procession, silent, as
if everything had already been done.
There are no men around him, only women. He is the
only man and thus the last man, this man already less
young. The Last Man is not only the tide of another of
Blanchot's books. The eschatology of the last man is
marked in the phrase char states in the mode of fiction ("as
if") that the end has already taken place before the end:
"as if everything had already been done." Death has al-
ready taken place, however unexperienced its experience
may remain in the absolute acceleration of a time infi-
nitely contracted into the point of an instant. The screen-
play is so clear, and it describes the action so explicitly in
two lines, that the program is exhausted in advance. We
know everything with an absolute knowledge. Everything,
all of it, has already happened because we know what is
going to happen. We know the screenplay; we know what
is going ro happen. Ir is over; it is already over from the
instant of the credits. It begins with rhe end; as in The
Madness of the Day, it begins with the end. We know it
happened. "As if everything were already done," it already
happened. The end of time.
What will happen now will rhus sink into what was
done, as it were backward, into what had already arrived,
into what has already arrived, that is to say, death. The
women who leave know, as does the young man, as does
the last man and his shadow, witness tO a witness, that
death has already arrived, because it is inescapable. One is
Demeure
not resuscitated from rhis experience of inescapable death,
e,en if one survives it. One can only survive it without
surviving ir. If one wanted ro speak here of resurrection
through the experience of a Christlike passion (the Ger-
mans would be the Romans, rhis time), there would be no
Christology, no speculative Good Friday, no truth of reli-
gion in the absolute knowledge of Hegel, whose spectral
shadow will not be long in passing. But all of this-the
Passion, the Resurrection, absolute Knowledge- is mim-
icked, repeated, and displaced. Already in the life without
life of this survivance, henceforth, as it were, fictional, all
knowledge wi ll tremble, and with it all testimonial state-
ment in the form of knowledge: "l know-do I know
ir-," without question marks. The paragraph that begins
rhus tells of the knowledge and the indecision regarding
knowledge mat the narrator-witness continues to invoke
on the subject of rhe ocher, the old young man, the last
man that he is, rhe last man by name, the last ro remain
[demeurer] from the Chateau:
l know-do 1 know it- that the one ar whom the Germans
were already aiming, awaiting but the final order, experi-
enced then a feeling of extraordinary lightness, a sort ofbeat-
irude (nothing happy, however)-sovereign elation? The en-
counrer of death with death?
It is not enough to pay careful attention to the letter
and the economy of these words. For the eye and the
breath, first, one must give way in silence to the punctua-
tion: the absence of question marks after " I know- do I
know-," followed by multiple question marks where the
verb remains omitted ("sovereign elation? The encounter
of death with death?"), and in both cases a principle of
uncertainry, a perhaps that modaliz.es, "epochaliz.es," and
suspends all assertions of the narraror-wirness. He never
Demeure
affirms anything, never commits himself to any assertion.
One should also note the substitution of "beatitude" for
"happiness" in a sort of negarive approach of what re-
mains co be said, as sovereignry itself, perhaps. The ques-
tion marks suspend everything in an epokhe of judgment
such as I underlined at the beginning of the narrative on
the subject of the "perhaps." The sovereignry of "sovereign
beatitude" perhaps prevails, in death itself, over the mas-
tery of power that brings death, over the mastery of che
Nazi occupier.
Many other of Blanchot's texts, in particular the double
"A Primitive Scene," name a furtive moment, a scene where
hardly anything at all is recounted, where perhaps nothing
arrives. A child, perhaps the same as chis "young man,"
experiences through rears, following something that re-
sembles an unspoken trauma, a feeling of lightness or bea-
titude. "Sovereign elation?" Another question: "The en-
counter of death with death?" With a question mark, this
lase question may appear tautological, redundant, or hol-
low, unless it is saying the essemial, namely, death itself,
for once, at the tip of the inseam of imminence, at gun
point, at the moment when and from the moment that
death was going to arrive-because he has not been shot
yet. Perhaps it is the encounter of death, which is only
ever an imminence, only ever an instance, only ever a sus-
pension, an amicipacion, the encounter of death as antic-
ipation with death itself, with a death chat has already ar-
rived according to the inescapable: an encounter berween
what is going co arrive and what has already arrived. Be-
tween what is on the point of arriving and what has just
arrived, berween what is going co come [va venir] and
what just finished coming [vient de venir], berween what
goes and comes. But as the same. Both virtual and real,
real as virtual. What has arrived has arrived insofar as it
Demeure
announces itself as what must inescapably arrive. Death
has just come from the instant it is going to come. It has
come co pass insofar as it comes; it has come as soon as it
is going ro come. !t hn.s just finished coming. Death en-
counters itself. The moment death encoumers itself, goi ng
to the encounter with itself, at chis moment both ines-
capable and improbable, the arrival of death at itself, this
arrival of a death that never arrives and never happens to
me-at chis instant lightness, elation, beatitude remajn
the only affects that can cake measure of this evem as "an
unexperienced experience." What can an unexperienced
feel ing signify? How would one experience it? Dying will
finally become possible-as prohibition. All living beings
have an impossible relation co death; at the instant death,
the impossible, will become possible as impossible. This is
what, by defying analysis, also gives lightness and sover-
eign elation:
In his place [in the place of the young man], I will not try to
analyze.
In the future, thus now, I will not cry co analyze in the
place of the young man whom I could no longer replace
roday even if he were the same as me. The self itself. Is
rhere a witness who would dare say this? And yet is there a
witness who muse nor say this, in all conscience, namely:
"At the moment of my attestation I am no longer the same
as the witness who lived that and who remains irreplace-
able"? The signature of che narrator is rhus dated. This is
rhe difference both null and uncrossable, real and fictional,
actual and virtual, berween the one who says "I" and the
'T' of the young man of whom he speaks and who is him-
self, whom he still remembers according to the synthesis of
which we spoke earlier. The one who says and undersigns
"I" today, now, cannot replace the ocher; he can no longer,
66 Demeure
therefore, replace himself, that is, the young man he has
been. He can no longer replace him, substitute himselffor
him, a condition that is nonetheless stipulated for any nor-
mal and non-fictional testimony. He can no longer relive
what has been lived. And rhus, in a certain way, he no
longer knows, he has a memory of what he no longer
knows ("' know-do I know it-," do I know; do I know
what I know, me, I, me the I .. . ). In other words, he tes-
tifies for a witness, in a different sense rhis rime, in the
place of the witness he cannot be for this other witness that
the young man was, and who is yet himself. The young
man was a witness to the death that came at him [venait
sur lui]. The witness to this wirness, who is the same, fifty
years later, cannot replace the wirness for whom he testi-
fies. Consequently, he cannot analyze what he himself felt,
this other himself, at that moment. An odd experience,
bur at the same time very banal. Every one of us can say at
every instant: really, I don't remember what I felt; I can't
describe what I felt at that moment; it's impossible, and I
can't analyze it in any case. What was me is no longer me,
the ego cogito, the "I think that accompanies all of my rep-
resenrations" is bur an empty form in which I do not rec-
ognize anything; this universal "I" was nor me, the me that
is speaking ro you; I can no longer (and do not ask me to,
it would be violence) answer for what this other me-
more other than any other-did, or even thought or felt
because of the troubling veniginousness that calls inro the
chasm of that instant and especially because what sepa-
rates the two egological identities is nothing less than
death itself, that is to say, everything, an infinite world.
The two die bur he is dead, I survive, he survived, I am
dead. If both die, which one remains to survive to say it?
He was perhaps suddenly invincible.
Demeure
Torally exposed, vulnerable, disarmed, offered unto
death, a being for death, the young man seems to repre-
sent the very opposite of invincibility, of course. But "per-
haps"! ("perhaps ... invincible"). And yet the inexorabil-
ity of what was coming at him, of what was imminent,
bur which had thus already arrived, "perhaps" made him
invincible. Invincible because totally vanquished, totally
exposed, totally lost.
Dead-immortal.
The syntax of this sentence without sentence, of this
death without sentence of which Blanchot also speaks
elsewhere, sums up everything in a single stroke. No verb.
A hyphen, a line of union and separation, a disjunctive
link wordlessly marks the place of all logical modalities:
dead and yet immortal, dead because immortal, dead inso-
for as immortal (an immortal does not live), immortal
from the mommt that and insofor as dead, although and for
as long as dead; for once 9ead one no longer d i ~ s and, ac-
cording to all possible modes, one has become 1mmortal,
rhus accustoming oneself ro-nothing. He is already
dead, since there has been a verdict, bur an immortal is
someone who is dead. When one is dead, it does nor hap-
pen twice, there are nor rwo deaths even if two die. Con-
sequently, only someone who is dead is immortal-in
other words, the immortals are dead. What happens to
him is immortality, with death and as death, at the same
instant. Not a Plaronic or Christian immortality in the
moment of death or of the Passion when the soul finally
gathers together as it leaves the body, having already been
ar work there in philosophy according ro rhe epimeleia tort
thn.natou of a pre-Christian Phaedo. No, it is in death that
immortality yields to an "unexperienced experience," in
the instant of death, when death arrives, where one is not
68 Demeure
yet dead in order to be already dead, ar the same instant.
Ar the same instant, bur the rip of the instant is divided
here: I am nor dead and I am dead. Ar that insranr, I am
immortal because I am dead: death can no longer happen
to me. It is prohibited. Hence an experience of immortal-
ity-the happiness of nearly being shot ro death, said the
letter, the letter wh.ich spoke of "happiness" where the
published text refuses the word, ar leasr refuses ir at this
moment, for the word "happiness" will appear in an in-
stant, which allows for this terrible murmur also ro be-
come a testimony to happiness.
Dcad-immorral. Perhaps ecstasy.
A vocabulary with mysticaJ resonances is elicited by the
secret and by the singularity of an unexperienced experi-
ence: going outside of oneself, beatitude, elation, lighrness,
ecstasy. An ecstatic wrenching from common temporal ex-
istence, an immense orgiastic jouissance-ro translate this
ecstatic beacirude into a language which is not Blanchot's.
It is jouissance and one can play at retranslating what we
are rold here into all the experiences of sensuous pleasure
that have extraordinary ecstasy, invincibility, lighrness to of-
fer. lr is jouissance insofar as it does nor go without death:
"Perhaps ecstasy," says the witness to himself as another.
Declaring that he will not try ro analyze in the place of
the young man, he nonetheless proposes descriptive
ds d h " h " " th " "H h wor an sc emas: per aps, ra er - e was per aps
suddenly invincible"-"Perhaps ecstasy." I underline the
"perhaps," the modality of his entire discourse; a lirrle ear-
lier, when he writes: "I know-do I know ir- " without
. k th "d Tkn . " " h " quesnon mar , e o ow tt- means per aps -
and unleashes a uembling in the assertion, in the cer-
tainty, a trembling that leaves its mark and its essential
modality on the entire discourse of rhe possible perhaps.
Demeure
That of the thinkers of rhe future, said Nierzsche. Noth-
ing is certain in this testimony, nothing is described,
nothing is observable: everything only may be. A random
virtuality that is less than ever opposed to the actuality of
rhe act or presence.
Rarher the feeling of compassion for suffering humanity, the
happiness of nor being immortal or erernal.
This "neither immortal nor eternal" might resemble the
reversal of the earlier, senrenceless ellipsis: "dead-immor-
tal." Bur this is not the case at all. The "dead-immortal"
did not in the least signify eternity. The immortality of
death is anything save rhe eternity of the present. The abid-
ance [demeurance] that we will discuss does not remain like
rhe permanence of an eternity. Jr is time itself. This non-
philosophical and non-religious experience of immortality
as death gives without rupturing solitude, in the ecstasy it-
self it gives compassion for all mortals, for all humans who
suffer; and the happiness, this time, of not being immor-
tal-or eternal. At this instant there can be elation, light-
ness in the immortality of death, happiness in compassion,
a sharing of finitude, a friendship with finite beings, in the
happiness of nor being immortal-or eternal.
Henceforth, he was bound to death by a surreptitious friend-
ship.
The compassion for suffering humanity, thus for a pas-
sion of death, is a bond without bond, the disjointing, the
disadjusting of a social bond that binds only, in truth, to
death and on condition of death: on condition of mortal
being.
Blanchot's Friendship-nor only the book that bears this
ride and not only the friendship he speaks of in this book,
70 Demeure
and not only for Bataille-is here allied with a passion of
tkath, as to its element and its condition. A friendship for
death. Friendship assumes the experience of death; it is a
matter of the friendship with death. He comes to love this
death. There is an alliance-"bound co death," he says-
a contract, a familiarity, a collusion with death and for al-
ways. The crypt of a secret friendship, unpublishable, un-
avowable, "surreptitious." Every sentence of this text gives
us, let us nor say a key, bur at least a prescription for read-
ing Blanchot's entire work, as if the "unexperienced expe-
rience" of the evenr he was recounting had, in advance,
given irs law, its grammar and its destiny to everything he
has since written.
Ar char inseam ...
So begins the following paragraph.
This is why we had co begin with the instant today. "At
that instant" the scene will turn or topple over imo the rev-
olution of a single instant. There has already been an in-
scam in which death happened co him. Everything was
preprogrammed; it was inevitable and fatal, it has thus al-
ready arrived-death. And yet, in this very "it has ar-
rived," another instantwill, in some sense, cause the world,
existence, and ecstasy itself co be overturned.
To this instant he will testify.
At chat instant, an abrupt return to the world ...
Death had already taken place. It had arrived from the
moment the young man began co wait for "the final or-
der," the "Fire" of the lieutenant. He had thus left the
world, dying before dying, not for another world, but for
a non-world beyond life, nor for a transcendem beyond or
the beyond that religions and metaphysics cell us about,
but for a here-below without world, a beyond here-below,
71
a without-world from which he who is already dead al-
ready rerurns, like a ghost, the momem gunfire suddenly
explodes in the vicinity. Another "fire," a coumerfire.
At that instant, an abrupt return to the world, che consid-
erable noise of a nearby barrie exploded. Comrades from
the maquis wanted to bring help to one they knew to be in
danger.
Here things seem very clear and the reality of the refer-
em appears to be named deliberately beyond the perfo-
rated veil, the net or mesh of fiction. Literature serves as
real testimony. Literature pretends, through an excess of
fiction-others would say lie-co pass icself off as a real
and responsible testimony about a historical realiry-
without, however, signing this testimony because it is
literature and the narracor is not the author of an auto-
biography. We are clearly given to understand that the Re-
sistance fighters, the friends of the young man, the ac-
complices of the ficdonal character, are also the allies of
rhe narrator, who is "the same" as the character, the
"young man," and by comagion the allies of Maurice
Blanchot, whom one also suspects of being the same as
the narrator, who is none other than the "young man," the
friend of the "comrades from the maquis." Conclusion,
Dichtung zmd Wahrheit, the Resistance fighters, the "com-
rades from rhe maquis," who were the friends of the
young man, are the allies and friends of the narrator, who
in truth is none ocher than Maurice Blanchot. A way of
saying to all the prosecutors of the world and elsewhere, of
this continent and the other continents, that the people of
the maquis were comrades and his comrades. The author
could coum himself among the Resistance fighters. He
was in the war against the Nazis as he was against the
genocidal an ti-Semires.
Demeure
Comrades from the maquis wanted to bring help to one
they knew to be in danger.
ln other words-let us always say "in other words, " for
it is always a matter here of saying otherwise said and a cer-
tain slippage of the that is to say-"bring help," in ocher
words, "help" and salvation of me, of me, that is to say, of
the young man, of rhe young man, that is to say, of rhe
narrator, rhe first and last witness, the inrimare witness of
the young man, of the narrator witness, that is to say, of
rhe author who slips in behind the I of rhe narrator. The
slippage of these three metonymic "that is to say's," the
play of these three l's, is a passion of literature as passion
of death and compassion among these three instances (au-
thor, narrator, character); it is the passion in literature,
what rhe perverse limit between Dichtung und Wahrheit
suffers, endures, tolerates, and cuJtivares. The that is to say
never signs. No one will dare assume the right, because no
one will ever have it, to say that these three !'s are rhe
same; no one will ever answer for this identity of compas-
sion. lr is a fi ction of testimony more than a testimony in
which the witness swears to tell the truth, the whole truth,
and nothing bur the truth. But allow me, for lack of rime,
to say this roo quickly: without the possibility of this fic-
tion, without the spectral virtuality of this simulacrum
and as a result of this lie or this fragmenrarion of the true,
no truthful testimony would be possible. Consequently,
the possibility oflirerary fiction haunts so-called rruchful,
responsible, serious, real testimony as irs proper possibil-
ity. This haunting is perhaps the passion itself, rhe pas-
sionate place of literary writing, as the project ro say every-
thing-and wherever it is auto-biographical, rhar is ro say,
everywhere, and everywhere autobio-rhanatographical.
The lieurenanr moved away [seloigna] ro assess rhe situation.
Demeure
73
The scene of imminence becomes clear in the discreet
series of these instantaneous seizures, everything is ready:
rhe firing squad is ready to fire, waiting, like the young
man, for "the final order"; the lieutenant is ready to give
ir, this order. Everything is in order, rhe order of absolute
immi nence, when suddenly, from one instant ro the next,
an absolute interruption of absolute imminence, the lieu-
tenant hears a noise in the distance, he moves away for an
instant. He does not leave, he moves away. The movement
away, the "moving away" is one of the most discreetly ef-
fective and recmrent words of rhe narrative; we will return
to this more chan once. No one leaves or escapes, espe-
cially not the young man, rhe last man, bur everyone
moves away.
The Germans srayed in order ...
In other words, the soldiers remain "in order" waiting
for the "final order" (the same word, "order" in two ab-
solutely different senses). The second-class soldiers, im-
mobile, remain ready ro fire while rhe lieutenant takes a
few steps ro see what is happening, because of rhe detona-
tions char, ar chat inseam, come ro disturb rhe scenario, ro
interrupt the fatal progress of rhe execution. As if the sud-
den inrerruprion of an order were nothing less than the
interruption of time irself. Revolution. The testimony tes-
tifies co nothing less than che instant of an interruption of
rime and history, a second of interruption in which fiction
and testimony find their common resource.
The Germans srayed in order, prepared to remain [demeurer]
rhus in an immobility rhar arresrcd rime. [My emphasis]
Such an instant does nor follow in rhe temporal se-
quence of instants; this insranr is another eternity, the
Ha nce or station of another present. Suddenly, the pro-
74
Demeure
gram of execution is fixed, prepared to remain [demeurer]
for eternity. The soldiers are there, they will not move so
long as they do nor receive the order ro do something else.
This instanraneous seizure resembles a painting (i t is exe-
cuted like an execution by Goya or Maner, May Third,
I8o8 (1814) or the Execution of Maximilian (1867-69), rwo
more events with obliquely Napoleonic references).
Freeze-frame in the unfoldi ng of a film in a movie camera:
the soldiers are there, they no longer move, neither does
the young man, an eternal instant, another eternal instant.
Then one of them approached and said in a firm voice,
"We're not Germans, Russians," and, with a sore of laugh,
"VIassov army," and made a sign for him co disappear.
In other words, one soldier moves, a single one among
them. Everything will depend on this unique initiative,
singular and solitary, in truth unique and unexpected on
the part of a soldier: an original who separates himself
from the group to which he belongs. Everything will
hinge on this separation, which intensifies the disparity in
nationality. The Vlassov army is another ineffaceable ref-
erent anchori ng lirerarure to a confirmed historical reality;
it was a Russian army that put itself in the service of the
Nazis. Vlassov was a Russian general who-to summarize
in a word the very complex process in irs premises and fi-
nal evolution-went over to the enemy, to the German
side, with his army. He figures as a sort of collaborator,
but the analogy is superficial. Some of the soldiers who
held the young man, his witness, and the author at gun-
point were thus Russian soldiers and not German soldiers.
Salvation came from the Russians and not the Nazis. The
allusion to Dostoyevsky is even more tempting: he also es-
caped execution at the last instant through what was a
pardon, the clemency [grace] of an emperor who thought
Demeure
75
rhac he could possess literature by playing with the life of
a great writer. It is by the Russians that the French wri ter
was almost executed and thanks to whom miraculously
bur without grace [grace] he escapes death.
(I intentionally say "miraculously" to suggest some-
thing I wiJI not have the time to develop further, namely,
chat any testimony testifies in essence to the miraculous
and the extraordinary from the moment it must, by defi-
nition, appeal ro an act of faith beyond any proof. When
one testifies, even on the subject of the most ordinary and
the most "normal" event, one asks the orher ro believe one
at one's word as if it were a matter of a miracle. Where it
shares irs condition with literary fiction, tesrimoniality be-
longs a priori to the order of the miraculous. This is why
reflection on testimony has always historically privileged
che example of miracles. The miracle is the essential line
of union between resrimony and fiction. And rhe passion
we are discussing goes hand in hand with the miraculous,
rhe fantastic, the phantasmaric, the spectral, vision, ap-
parition, the touch of the untouchable, the experi ence of
the extraordinary, history without narure, the anomalous.
This is also why it is a canonical passion, canonizable, in
the European-Christian-Roman sense.)
Thus an interruption of dying is at issue, a salvation by
the Resistance and by a Russian. An act of the French Re-
sistance has interrupted the process of execution and the
Resistance has been taken over by a Russian who, in ab-
normal and borrowed French, has betrayed his comman-
der and betrayed the betrayal of Vlassov.
"We're not Germans, Russians," and, with a sort of laugh,
"VIassov army," and made a sign for him co disappear.
The question of language is certainly important. The
"German" lieutenant is a "Nazi" who apparently "spoke

shamefully normal French," bur one of che soldiers, who is
Russian and nor German, speaks normaJ French: '"We're
nor Germans, Russians."'
.--..,.,
Jn ocher words, rhe Russian betrays the German ro save
"Blanchor" (you know why I am putting chis proper noun
in quotation marks, henceforch) . He saves "Blanchor," he
assures his salvation by telling him, in shore, "Go, save
yourself." The passion of chis instant of my death is a
story of saJvarion, a passion as salvation, bur of a salvation
that has come from someone who salutes rhe ocher and
saves him by saying, "Save yourself. " WicholH apparent
Christian soreriology.
Naturally, "Blanchor" does nor run off; chis would be
unworthy. It is not said char he rook ro his heels at top
speed, our of fear, bur char he moved away ("I think he
moved away"), no doubt wich che same slowness, "almost
priescly," as the young man at the beginning of the narra-
tive shortly before, of whom it was already said, lee us re-
member-and the arr of composition is as always ad-
mirable-chat he did nor Aee ("The young man ... did
nor try to Aee bur advanced slowly, in an aJmosr priestly
manner"). Now again he saves himself [se without
Aeeing, or racher, he assures his salvation without running
away [wichout saving himself: sans se Bur one al-
ready knows that chis very salvation will not have saved
him from death, which will aJready have taken place in
any event. It is a salvation without salvation. And twice
more, for rhe chird time at lease, the vocabulary of dis-
ranee insists at very close intervals: "he moved away"
... in the direction of"a distant forest":
I think he moved away, still with the feeling of li ghtness, un-
ti l he found himself in a distant forest, named the "Bois des

77
bruyeres," where he remained [dm1mra] shehered by trees
he knew well.
"He remained [demeura] sheltered . ... " If we had the
time, we might have been able and we would have had to
follow che specificalJy lingering insistence of the abode and
the abiding [/'insistance proprement demeurante Ia de-
meure et du demeurer] in The !mtant of My Death. And
the word "abode, abiding [demeure, demeurer]" often re-
turns in che text , which thus remains untrans-
latable (someone who is present here has had a firsthand
experience of this),
15
where the signifying form demeure
plays on what dies, wich rhe "unexperi enced experience"
of che one who dies, where rwo di e, do nor di e, or remain
[demettrent] or un-die [dt!-mi."Urent] in che moment in
which chey die, but also wich what stays on and maintains
itself through time in an abode a house, the
rooms, and a Chateau whose premises form the constant
foyer of the descriptions and references. As if che abode
abidance [sa demeurance]-were the true
cenrral character, at the same cime being the scene, the
place, and the taking place of the narrative. Everything
chat happens, in the instant, happens because of and in
the proximity of the Chateau; everything happens with-
out happening to the Chateau, ro chc abode [/a
in which rhe one who was "prevented from dying by
deach itself" resides [demeure]: "In a large house (the Cha-
teau, it was called)."
The abiding of the abode [le demeurer de Ia demeure] is
specificalJy named at least five cimes. Before listing them,
I wi ll call to mind, among all of those that are important
to us here, several of the semantic features of this rare
word, enigmatic and strictly untranslatable. It is a word
with a Latin root, again, which, through Provens:al, Span-
ish (demorar), or Italian (demomri), leads one back to the
Larin demorari, de and mourari, which signifies to wait
and to delay. There is always the idea of a wait, a con-
tretemps, a delay, or a reprieve in a demeure as there is in a
morarorium. In great-French-literature, the demeure as the
waiting or the appeal [instance] was made ro rhyme with
the word meurt. Corneille: "Oui, sans plus de demeure,
Pour l' interer des dieux je consens qu'elle meure [Yes,
without further delay, In the interest of the Gods I con-
sent ro her death]." Etre en demeure is co be late, and met-
tre en demeure, in juridical language, is co summon some-
one to fulfill an obligation within an allotted rime. The
extension co a home, a lodging, a residence, a house first
stems from rhe time given for the occupation of a space
and goes as far as the "final resting place [demiere de-
meure]" where the dead reside. There would be no end co
the mortuary and morarory avenues of this vocabulary
char we could visit. Old French also had this word chat I
have already used, in an approximate way, I think: lode-
meurance, which was also written- more strikingly and
very appropriately for our rexr, Ia demourance.
Here, then, are the five reminders of such a demoumnce
in The Instant of My Death. Each rime the grammatical
form is different, hence each occurrence is unique, without
the least weakness of distracted repetition (derneurer, de-
meura, demeure [the noun]. demeure [the verb]. demeurait).
1. "The Germans stayed in order, prepared to remain
[demeurer] thus in an immobility that arrested rime."
2 . Lower, on the same page: "he found himself in a dis-
tant forest, named the ' Bois des bruyeres,' where he re-
mained[demeura] sheltered by trees he knew well. "
3 Further, rhe home [Ia demeure] is none other chan
Hegel's, and we are nor through with chis analogy or chis
contrast: "Lie and truth: for as Hegel wrote ro another
Demeure
79
fr iend, the French pillaged and ransacked his home [sa de-
meure]." We will return to this, and to this "Lie and
truth" that resonates like an echo of the contemporary
Diclmmg und Wahrheit of someone who also had dealings
with Napoleon.
4 The last sentence of the narrati ve, which brings to-
gether the essential, describes "all that remains [demeure]";
and "all that remains" is the very death of the one who
dies: "NJ that umains is the feeling of lightness, which is
death itself or, to pur it more precisely, the instant of my
death henceforth always in abeyance."
5 This last sentence repeats another sentence a little
further up, which begins in an even more striking way
with the verb demeurait, placed at the head and origin of
rhe statement in order co characterize what is called by the
same words and thus gives the most abiding [demeurante]
note, the demourance of rhe entire narrative, affecting it
with irs most essential affect, "the feeling of lightness":
There remained however [Demeurair cependant], at the mo-
ment when the shooting was no longer but ro come, the feel-
ing of lightness that I would nor know how to translate ....
This demeurait is in keeping with the sense of demeu-
mnce, namely, as the same sentence says, of being "ro
come."
Lee us go back a litde further:
In the dense forest, suddenly, after how much rime, he redis-
covered a sense of the real.
Chronological notations, indications of rime abound.
"Bianchot" or rhe narrator is consrandy underlining the
duration, the non-duration, the impossibility of measur-
ing the duration or the demourance. This chronometry re-
So Demeure
mains paradoxical and removed from objective knowl-
edge: "after how much time" is another question without
question mark-he does not know "after how much time,
he rediscovered a sense of the real. " And thus, perhaps, if
he ever rediscovered ir.
A rime of return. There is a return ro the world when
the shooting explodes. In this return ro rhe world, he
moves away without running away. Only once he has es-
caped without escaping [.sest sauve sam se sauver] does he
return to the real. This implies that unril rhis instant, in
this unbelievable scenario, he had, in some sense, left the
real. All of this was nor real in a certain manner- to par-
ody by inversion the sentence from The Madness of the
Day. Here "he rediscovered a sense of the real. " Both fic-
tional and real, this testimony could not put itself forward
as fiction if it did not lay claim to reality.
Everywhere fires, a continuous succession of fires; all the farms
were burning. A little later, he learned that three young men,
sons of farmers-truly strangers to all combat, whose only
fault was their youth-had been slaughtered. [My emphasis]
Not only is ir a matter of a chronometry without mea-
sure, but it is also a question of the impossible measure of
time according to age and generation; whence the quick ag-
ing of those who are young ("three young men ... whose
only fault was their youth"). Something he "learned" "a lit-
de later."
Even the bloated horses, on the road, in the fields, attesud to
a war that had gone on. [My emphasis]
The verb "attested," which I underline, is the only word
that explicitly signals the testimonial dimension of the
narrative. It is employed, furthermore, in a diverted and
derivative sense: a thing or an animal, a fortiori, a body
Demeure
81
could never arrest to anything, even if it does attest, in the
loose sense of being a clue or evidence. In the humanist
logic of what we call testimony in our European culture, a
horse does not testify. Nor does a body. The death of a
horse does not testify to the fact that there has been war
unless one is using the word attest in a rather vague sense,
in rhe sense of an exhibit, of a document or an archive.
Even rhe bloared horses, on the road, in rhe fields, arrested ro
a war rhar had gone on.
The war "had gone on. " This new chronometric nota-
tion again plays on the paradox. It is first, in appearance,
commensurate this time with the hostilities whose se-
quence is stiU unfinished, although the state of war re-
mains [demeure]: the bodies of the horses are bloated be-
cause they have long since been abandoned. But the
following question repeats the "how much time" on the
same page; it seems ro concern-with a question mark
chis rime-the rime of the presem scene: "In reali ty, how
much rime had elapsed?" Again, above on the same page,
the witness in effect asked: "after how much time," and
here, at the bottom of the page, "how much time had
elapsed?" A ciisrurbance in the measure of ri me and a para-
doxy of these instants, which are so many heterogeneous
times. Neither synchrony nor diachrony, an anachrony of
all instants. Demourance as anachrony. There is not a sin-
gle time, and since there is not a single time, since one in-
~ r a m has no common measure with any other because of
death, by reason of death interposed, in the interruption
hy reason of death, so to speak, because of the cause of the
death there can be no chronology or chronometry. One
cannot, even when one has recovered a sense of the real,
measure time. And thus the question ret urns, how many
times: how much time? how much time? how much time?
De-meure
What Blanchot's text anests to, what it wants ro tes-
tify to, is, basically, that for the lasr fifty years, in spite of
the anniversary he tells me about, July 20, 1994, rime has
not been measurable. Blanchor has remained rhe one
who remained back there, undying [demourant] in the
same restanu-who died thar day, who died without dy-
ing, who escaped without escaping [qui a ttl sauvl sans
se sauver]; but for how much time? Fifty years? Fifty
rhousand years? No time. The time of demouranu is
incommensurable.
When the lieutenant returned and became aware rhe young
chatelaine had disappeared, why did anger, rage, nor prompt
him to burn down the Chateau (immobi le and majestic)?
Because it was the Chateau.
From the beginning of the text, we are reminded that
this residence [demeure] is called "the Chareau," not only
on account of the monumenral nobiliry of the notation, of
the reference to all castles in the world, especially Kafka's
castle, but also because this castle is an authoriry [in-
stance], a socio-political figure that will play a role in the
unfolding and in the macro-historical, ideological-politi-
cal and socio-juridical interpretation of the testimonial
thing. Several sentences bring together everything that
this castle or this reference to the castle mobilizes in terms
of historical memory, coincidences, crossings, anniver-
saries, hypermnesic superimpositions. This Chateau be-
comes a palimpsest for the enrire history of Europe. This
residence [demeure] harbors the essential archive of
moderniry. In the genial and genealogical economy of an
elliptical narrative that occupies no more space than a
missive, in the absolute breviry of an event that did not ar-
rive, so ro speak, in what arrived without arriving, the en-
eire memory of European moderniry comes to be meton
Demeure
ymized. There is here the genius of the witness who re-
minds us thar the testimonial act is poetic or ir is not,
from the moment it must invent its language and form it-
self in an incommensurable performarive.
On the facade was inscribed, like an indestructible reminder,
the date 1807.
An unflagging interest in the dare, the anniversary, the
return takes hold of the witness at this point. As at the be-
ginni ng of the letter outside literature that I can attest to
having received a year ago. "July 20. Fifty years ago, I
knew rhe happiness of nearly bei ng shot to dearh."
... like an indestructible reminder, the dare 1807. Was he
cultivated enough [the lieutenant] to know this was the fa-
mous year of Jena,
16
when Napoleon, on his small gray horse,
passed under the windows of Hegel, who recognized in him
the "spirit of the world," as he wrote to a friend? Lie and
uuth: as Hegel wrote to another friend ... [ h m ~ is always
mo" than one truth because there a" several .friends. Hegel had
mo" than one friend, and he did not testifj to the same thing
before each of them. They ail spoke Gmnan, the same language,
but, perhaps. without lying, Hegel told this to one and rhat to
the other about the historical truth of what was happening; and
the difference is not nothing, as you will see.] Lie and truth, for,
as Hegel wrore to another friend, the French pillaged and
ransacked his home[ sa demeure]. [My emphasis]
just and unjust rerurn of rhings between France and her
neighbors: what happened to the Hegel residence [de-
meure] is, in shore, a little like what happened, much later,
in the Chateau, to "Bianchot's" residence [demeure]. Ex-
cept whar the French did was worse, in not respecring the
home [demeure] of the thinker of the end of history and
absolute knowledge. If we had to save time, save on time
or beat time ro it, we would insert here, in a big book, an
Demeure
immense chapter on Hegel and Blanchor via MaJiarme
and a few others.
Here, the Chateau was spared-it might have been pil-
laged-but the scene was much rhe same. T he Ger-
mans-or their German Russians, rhe Nazi Russians of
Vlassov-had come ro do, let us nor forger, something
like what the French of the French Revolution had gone
to do in Germany, in rhe days following rhe French Rev-
olution and under the pretext of exporting the revolution
to Europe:
... the French pillaged and ransacked his home [demeure] .
Bur Hegel knew how to distinguish the empirical and the es-
sential.
There are friends to whom one abandons the empirical
and friends to whom one confides the essential. Friend-
ship is this as well.
17
If anyone insists on this disti nction,
it is Hegel. We have famous examples of some of llis
replies on the subject. When he did not wanr ro hear
something discussed, something he wanred to be rid of-
for example, a natural child- he said that it was an em-
pirical accident.
In that year 1944, the Nazi lieurenanr had for the Chateau
a respect or consideradon that rhe farms did nor arouse.
Everything was searched, however. Some money was taken
[thus they pillaged, these Germans or these Russians-as
the French pillaged in x8o6]; in a separate room, "the high
chamber."
" (T]he high chamber" is contained within quotation
marks. The witness-author, rhe witness of rhe witness-
narrator who knows everything, who has an absolute
knowledge of what he speaks of, he knows in particular
rhar there was in the residence [demeure] a room called
Demeure
rhe "high chamber." lr was probably his own room, he
resided [demeurait] there, he wrote there, since:
.. . the lieurenanr found papers and a sort of thick manu-
script-which perhaps conrained war plans.
Berween "manuscript" and "which," the dash indicates
a change of person. The young man or the witness of rhe
young man knows rhar this manuscript had nothing to do
with war plans. Yet rhe lieutenant rakes them because he
thi nks that they are war plans. T hey were probably writ-
reo work of Blanchor's-but the li eutenanr rakes them,
saying to himself: perhaps these are war documents, a war
plan. Thus "which perhaps contained war plans" is the hy-
pothesis formed by the lieutenant. The witness of the wit-
ness has passed surreptitiously into the head of the lieu-
renanr and conjeccures about a hypothesis that may have
been formed there.
Finally he left. Everything was burning, except the Chateau.
The Seigneurs had been spared.
AJI of this forms an apocalyptic scene of Last Judgment.
This narrative-testimony is also a complaint and an accu-
sation. Blanchot, or at least the narrator, is in some sense
complaining about, bringing an accusation- injustice, er-
ror and injustice-against his having been saved and his
resi dence's having been saved for an impure, unavowable,
~ o c i a l l y suspect reason, shameful rhus for a reason rhar
calls aU the more for an urgent confession; and this narra-
tive of self-j ustification is also, inversely, rhe confession of
the unavowable. Bur through the self-j ustification, through
the confession, another accusation, another complaint can
be heard at the same rime: that everything was saved except
tbe manuscript. We will return to this loss of a manuscript,
bur, as we noted a moment ago, let us also recall Hegel's
86 Demeure
worry over his manuscript in the middle of the Napoleonic
tnvaston.
Everything was saved, without his ever having saved
himself, because he was taken for a Seigneur. The resi*
dence [demeure] was saved because it was taken for a Cas*
de that belonged to the seigniorial race. When one knows
what Seignror signified at that moment in the Nazi code,
this complaint or this accusation can only be inspi red by a
registered anci*Nazism. "The Seigneurs had been spared,"
but not the farms or the farmers. A feudal scene. The
farms are burned; the young fa rmers, who had nothing to
do with rhe whole thing, have been executed. But one
respects the Seigneur or the residence [demeure] of rhe
Seigneur.
No doubt what then began for the young man was the tor*
menr of injustice.
The initial allusion to injustice is here made clear, at
least in part. Second occurrence of the word "injustice."
The lmtant of My Death is also a meditation on justice-
"and perhaps the error of injustice." It may also be a the*
sis on the error that is perhaps found at the root of all in*
justice. This might serve, incidentally-insofar as no one
is voluntarily unjust but only unjust due to error-to ex*
culpate or attenuate any breach of justice, including, al*
though not only, any breach of the law: for example, in
testimony.
Through his own personal salvation, the savi ng of his
life, but also the saving of his home [demeure], a young
man experiences social and political injustice, a revolu*
tionary experience. This torment has never ceased, just as
the suffering born of this death which was nor one has
never ceased. Which was nor even one, bur several, in in*
calculable number.
Demeure
o more ecstasy; the feeling rhat he was only living because,
even in the eyes of the Russians, he belonged to a noble class.
"Even in the eyes of the Russians," nor only for the
:-Jazis, for the Germans, bur for these Russians, whom one
can associate, at least vaguely, wirh the Revolution: even
for them, a castle is invulnerable. This abode [demrore]
must be "respected" or prorecred. He who without dying
dies abidingly [a demeure] will have benefited from an in*
justice, he and his home, his home, rhar is to say, his fam*
ily. He has benefi ced from an injustice, and he will not
cease to suffer from chis privilege. This torment will be rhe
torment of an entire life, life as the torment of an injustice,
as an inexpiable fault, inexpiable because it was his without
bei ng his. Everything happens as if he had to attempt rhe
impossible redemption of a si n or a temptation which was
also thar of others, yes, the suffering of a sort of Passion. A
non*redeeming passion, a passion that would nor only suf*
fer for salvation, forgiveness, or redemption, bur fi rst a pas-
sion as transgression of a prohibition. The Step Not Beyond
says ir in other words, in a sentence rhat could attend co
our encounter: "Transgression transgresses out of passion,
patience, passiviry. " Transgression is thus nor a decision,
certainly not a decision as acriviry of the ego or voluntary
calculation of the subject.
No more ecstasy; the feeling that he was only living because,
even in the eyes of the Russians. he belonged to a noble class.
This was war: life for some, for others, the cruelty of
assassination.
Execution here is a matter of assassinat ion. Would one
bc going too far if one were to understand this suggestion
as contesting the di stinction berween war and assassina*
tion, the distinctions berween the right of war, the law of
88 Demeure
peoples, the rules of war, war crime, and then murder pure
and si mple? T he distinction berween military and civilian
loses irs pertinence. The Resistance and the wars of Resis-
tance-as Schmitt says in his Theorie des Partisanen-chal-
lenge the very concept of war in European law, abolishing
the distinction between milirary and civilian, violating the
laws of war and the law of peoples. I am jumping here co
another big chapter (Hegel, Marx, Schmitt, and Blanchot).
There remained [Dnneurait]. however, at the moment when
the shooting was no longer but to come, the feeling of light-
ness that 1 would not know how to translate .. ..
Demeuraitat the beginning: through all the mutations,
the changes of world, the conversions that have abounded
since we began, the memory already remained [demeurait
deja]: the insistence and persistence of the instant, abid-
ingly [a demeure] it waited and delayed, the memory of
this lightness, from the moment of lightness, from the
feeling oflighrness; it already remained as it remains to-
day still. Remaining [Demeurer]. it was already doing chis
through the entire transformation, which he is in the
process of describing in himself or in any case in the
young man. There is a memory of ecstasy, or rather the
memory oflighmess, the memory of beatitude, the mem-
ory of sovereignty, which was due to the imminence of
death, to the imminence without imminence, to the im-
minence of a death that has already arrived. It remained
[demeurait]. in the imperfect past of incompletion, this
lightness chat has never left him, and it is diffi cult for him
to translate this feeling otherwise than with questions:
"freed from life?"
He lives, bur he is no longer living. Because he is al-
ready dead, it is a life without life. All of the phrases that
Demeure
Blanchot tirelessly forms according the model "X without
X" ("to live without li ving [vivre sam vivant]." "to die
without death [mourir sam mort]." "death without death, "
"name without name," "unhappiness without unhappi-
ness," "being without being," erc.)
18
have their possibility,
which is not only a formal possibility but an event of pos-
sibilization in what happened there, that day, at that ac-
tual instant, char is, chat henceforth, starring from that
stigmatic point, from the stigma of a verdict that con-
demned him to death without death being what ensued,
there will be for him, for the young man, for his witness
and for rhe author, a death without death and rhus a life
without life. Life has freed itself from life; one might just
as well say rhat life has been relieved of life. A life that
simply stops is neither weighty nor light. Nor is it a life
rhar simply continues. Life can only be light from the
moment that it stays dead-living while being freed, that is
to say, released from itself. A life without life, an experi-
ence of lightness, an instance of "without," a logic with-
our logic of the "X without X," or of the "nor" or of the
"except," of the "being without being," ere. In "A Primi-
tive Scene," we could read: "To live without living, like
dying without death: writing returns us to these enig-
matic propositions."
The proof that we have here, with rhis testimony and
reference ro an event, the logical and textual matrix of
Blanchor's entire corpus, so to speak, is that this lighrness
of"withour," the thinking of the "X without X" comes to
sign, consign or countersign the experience of the neuter
as neuter, neither-nor by bringing it together. This experi-
ence draws ro itself and endures, in irs very passion, the
thinking as well as the writing of Blanchor, between lirer-
arure and the right ro death. Neither . .. nor: in this way
the witness translates the untranslatable demourance:
Demeure
There remained, however, at the moment when the shooting
was no longer but to come, the feeling of lightness that I
would nor know how to uanslate: freed from life? the infi-
nite opening up?
These two questions might lead one co think that the
translations are inadequate. This lightness neither frees
nor relieves of anything; it is neither a salvation through
freedom nor an opening to the infinite because this pas-
sion is without freedom and this death without death is a
confirmation of finitude. Yet here is a more affirmative re-
sponse, if not a more positive and more assured one. But
it is still a response according to the grammar of the nei-
ther ... nor:
Neither happiness, nor unhappiness. Nor the absence of fear
and perhaps [again the perhaps] already the step beyond.
We could appeal to all of Blanchot's texts on the neuter
here- the neither-nor that is beyond all dialectic, of
course, but also beyond the negative grammar that the
word neuter, ne uter, seems to indicate. The neuter is the
experience or passion of a thinking that cannot stop at ei-
ther opposite without also overcoming the opposition-
neither this nor that, neither happiness nor unhappiness.
The word "happiness" occurs for the second time here. He
had spoken of being happy earlier: "beatitude (nothing
happy, however)." "Nor the absence of fear and perhaps
already the step beyond." No italics, no quotation marks,
no allusion to a literary title in these words. Bur the logic
of the book called The Step Not Beyond is here in some
sense potenrialized in this instant of death without death
that signals to, without signaling, the literature of Blan-
chot. What is difficult to think, to analyz.e, to dialectize in
rhe logic of the step beyond is not-not only-the philo-
Demeure
91
sophical or speculative logic that is deployed without there
being anything that arrives, without there being anything
rhat has arrived. On the contrary, it is the event, thus a
passion-for the experience of what arrives must be pas-
sion, exposure to what one does nor see coming and could
not predict, master, calculate or program. It is this passion,
as it is described in the instant of my death that upholds
philosophy and makes possible speculative logic.
This does not mean that whoever has nor almost been
shot to death by the Germans cannot write, understand,
or think the step beyond. What this means, and I return
to rhe instance, to the exemplarity of the "instance," is
rhat the logic of the step beyond assumes a singular in-
stant of my death in generaL Singular in generaL If this
text is readable, at least hypothetically, and problemati-
cally to the extent that it would be readable through and
through, it would be so insofar as it is exemplary. It refers, -
it has a unique, factual, and undeniable referent-and an
irreplaceable signature.
Perhaps we should insist on this difficult and no doubt
decisive point, in this place of the passive and passionate
decision. For in the hypothetical case of a false testimony,
even one that was false through and through, and still in
rhe hypothetical case of a lie or a phantasmatic hallucina-
tion, or indeed a literary fiction pure and simple-well
then, the event described, the event of reference, will have
taken place, even in its structure of"unexperienced" expe-
rience, as deat h without death, which one could neither
say nor understand otherwise, that is, through a phanras-
maticiry, according to a spectraliry (phantasma is specter
in Greek) that is irs very law. This spectral law both con- -
sri tures and structures the abiding [demeurant] reference
in this narrative; it exceeds the opposition between real
and unreal, actual and virtual, factual and fictional. The
Demeure
death and the demourance of which rhe narrative speaks
have taken place even if they did nor rake place in what is
commonly called reality. The "without" in rhe "X wirhour
X" signifies this spectral necessity, which overflows the op-
position between reality and fiction. This spectral neces-
sity- under certain conditions, rhe conditions of rhe
phantasma-allows what does nor arrive ro arrive, what
one believes does nor arrive ro succeed in arriving [arrivn-
a arriver]. Virtually, with a virtuality that can no longer be
opposed ro acrual factuality. It is here char false resrimony
and literary fiction can in rruth still testify, at least as
symptom, from rhe moment char rhe possibility of fiction
has structured-bur with a fracture-what is called reaJ
experience. This constituting structure is a desrrucruring
fracture. It is the condition thar is common co liceracure
and non-literature, to the passion ofliterature as well as to
this passion tout court to which a literature cannot nor re-
fer. Here, in any case, the border between literature and irs
other becomes undecidable. The literary institution has
imposed itself; ir has also imposed rhe rigor of irs right to
ca1cu1ate, master, neutralize this undecidability, ro make
as if-another fiction-literature, in its possibility, had
not begun before literature, in the very abidance [tkmeu-
rance] of life. Bur it nonetheless remains [dt'meure]; one
must be able to say this just as firmly, that this undecid-
ability, like rhe abyssal co-implications it engenders, does
nor in the lease invalidate the exigency of crurhfulness,
sincerity, or objectivity, any more than it authorizes a con-
fusion bef\veen good faith and false testimony. But che
chaos remains [demeure], from which alone a right [ju.su]
reference to truth emerges or arises.
It is on this condition that we understand something of
this narrative, to the extent char we understand anything at
all about ir. This narrative testifies to what happened only
Demeurt'
93
once, dared, occurred, arrived, even if it did nor arrive, ar
a dare and in a place that are irreplaceable, to someone
who is, in short, the only one able ro testify ro it, even if he
inscribes his arrestation in a network of facts largely if nor
rorally probable, public, accessible to proof. Bur this arres-
tation both secret and public, fictional and real, literary
and non-literary-we only judge it ro be readable, if ir is,
insofar as a reader can understand ir, even if no such thing
has ever "really" happened to him, to the reader. We can
speak, we can read this because this experience, in the sin-
gularity of its secret, as "experience of rhe unexperienced,"
beyond the distinction between the real and the phanras-
maric, remains [demeure] universal and exemplary. We,
those to whom, I am assuming, this very thing it would
seem has never happened, and who speak French, we un-
derstand the meaning of this text up to a certain point. We
know perfeccly well, however, that because this never hap-
pened to us in this way, although we understand French,
there is more than one thing char we do nor understand,
that we understand without understanding. Conversely,
this thing here, this sequence of evenrs-having almost
been shot to death, having escaped ir, etc.-it is nor
enough for this to have happened for the one ro whom it
almost happened to understand, to be able ro read this
text, and to understand and think ir in the absolute secret
of irs singularity. Dosroyevsky would have described the
same survival, and he would have done it altogether other-
wise. He would have wrinen, he will have written another,
very different rexr. Dosroyevsky is another story entirely.
What we have here is an example of this limit char trem-
bles between understanding I not understanding, speaking
French I nor speaking French, speaking I nor speaking.
One understands, everyone here understands this narrative
in his own way, there are as many readings as there are
94 Demeure
readers, and yet there remains a certain manner of being in
agreement with the text, if one speaks its language, pro-
vided certain conditions are met. This is testimonial exem-
plarity. This text bears witness to a universalizable singu-
larity. Because this singularity is universalizable, it is able
to give rise-for example, in Blanchot-to a work that de-
pends without depending on this very event, a readable
and translatable work, a work that is more and more
widely translated into all the languages of the world, more
or less well, etc., more or less well read in France, which
does not mean that Blanchot is read better in French than
he is in English.
"Neither the absence of fear and perhaps already ... ":
perhaps-let us count the "perhaps's" in this little book.
" ... and perhaps already the step beyond. I know ... "-
correction: "I imagine." Earlier he said: "I know-do I
know. " Every time he says "I know," he moderates or dis-
curbs the knowledge: "I know-do I know . . .. "
I know, 1 imagine rhat this unanalyzable feeling changed
what there remained for him of existence.
"What there remained for him of existence" is here de-
scribed as a sort of tomorrow, a sort of postscript-fifty
years-this remainder that remains [demeure], the de-
mourance of this remainder will have been bur a short se-
quel of sorts, a fallout, a consequence. Nothing has truly
begun, moreover [au demeurant] for fifty years, after this
experience.
As if the death outside of him could only henceforth collide
with the death in him.
"As if the death outside of him": the death that came at
him [venait sur lui] waits for Blanchot, who is still living
in rhe same demourance. This death that will happen to
Demeure
95
him could only encounter a death-so much more an-
cient-already at work in him, from the instant it has al-
ready happened to him. As if one only had to wait now for
rhe encounter, in him, like him, of these two deaths. Let
us recall what the narrator said earlier about this en-
counter, before a question mark: "The encounter of death
with death?" He does not know whether death is encoun-
tering death at this moment. What he knows, what he
imagines, is that, henceforth, he is still waiting for this en-
counter, it remains in abeyance [demeure en instance] . As
for him, he remains in this encounter in the moratorium
of an encounter of the death outside of him with the death
that is already dying in him. There are two deaths, and the
two die as much as they make or let die. Just as there are
two subjects-two 'Ts," an "I" that speaks of a young
man, an "I" that is divided by what happened there-so
there are rwo, concurrent deaths. One ahead of the other,
in countertime, one making an advance to the other, an
advance that it demands be returned by returning itself
[qu'elle met en demeure de rendre en se rentlant]. They run
toward one another, into one another, one running to en-
counter the other. And what he knows, what he imagi nes
is that one death runs after the other: runs down, pursues
and chases, hunts the other. From the moment it chases
the other, pursues the other in order ro catch up with it,
one can hypothesize that it pushes away and excludes the
death that it chases in this way, that it also protects itself in
the passion of this permanent diffirance [differance a de-
meure], of this undying as differance [demourance comme
differance]. What remains for him of existence, more than
this race to death, is this race of death in view of death in
order not to see death coming.
In order not to see it coming means three things in one:
so as not to see it coming, because one allows it to come,
Demeure
and because one does not see it coming, which is death it-
self. To see something coming is ro anticipate, ro foresee,
and to allow to come without waiting, without preparing
oneself, without seeing and knowing what comes.
Two deaths, one outside, the other inside. Which call
each other back to one another.
"(am alive. No, you are dead. "
The "I am alive" could be understood as rhe tri umph of
life. A fanatical jubilation. That he should have escaped
death, whether or not he should have succeeded in the
work of infinite mourning that should follow his own
death, the survivor would be crying our in this triumphal
sentence of libidinal exultation "I am alive," in the un-
conscious of the "unanalyzable feeling." Like the spirit
thar always says no, the other immediately recalls him,
without delay, quick as a Bash, to the reality of the murder
that will have taken place and cruelly repeats the verdict:
"No, you are dead." We have already heard this "you are
dead" in other texts by Blanchor.
Bur who is speaking here? Who dares proclaim, "I am
alive"? Who dares reply "No, you are dead"? Up until chis
point, as we noted, an "I" speaks of another, of a third: "I"
speaks of him. "I" is me, speaks of the young man he was,
and this is sriJI me. This is called a narration. Bur for the
first time, between rhe two instances of the narrator and
character, who are the same without being the same, there
are quotation marks, there is speech that is being directly
quoted. Someone is speaking ro someone, a witness is
speaking to rhe other for che first time, in a dialogue char
is both an inner dialogue and, if T can put ir this way,
transcendent. "I" becomes "you" or addresses itself ro
"you," bur we do not know whether the 'T' is rhe one who
says 'T ' ar the beginning of the texc: "1 REMEMBER," or if it
Demeure
97
is che other, the young man. We do nor know who "you"
is, who says "you," nor do we know what is left our [cl!' qui
nt tu] of these two instances. Like each of these sentences,
chis conclusion is singularly, char is to say, properly genial.
One of rhe two, One of the Two, says to the Other, "I am
alive," and would rhus be the one who has survived. Bur
it is the orher, the one who has survived, who responds to
him: "No, you are dead." And chis is the colloquium, this
is the dialogue between rhe two witnesses, who are, more-
over [au demeurant], rhe same, alive and dead, living-dead,
and both of whom in abidance [en demourance] claim or -
allege that one is alive, the ocher dead, as if life went only
co an I and death co a you. Always according to the same
compassion of passion.
There is a postscript. A sore of parergonal hors-d'reuvre.
After the word "dearh," after the death sentence of "you
are dead, " one rurns the page. As if there were a blank-
thus an infinite rime immediately prior w che epilogue.
"Lacer": this is che first word of rhe epilogue. "Lacer"
nor only recalls the abidance [demouranu] and che abode
[demeure] of the morawrium. One would have ro reread
other of BJanchoc's remarkable "Iacer's." I will eire only
one, which opens one of rhe rwo versions of"A Primitive
Scene?,"
19
a title bearing a question mark in The Writing
of the Disasta. And perhaps The Instant of My Death re-
counts another primitive scene with a question mark. The
first words of"A Primitive Scene?" conjugate, sow speak,
rhe later in rhe present indicative, addressing themselves
w the furure, larer, of rhose-thc readers, the address-
ees-who will rhen live or believe they live and remember
in rhe present. A logic, an insane chrono-logie confides
chis gran1mar to the law of a disjointed present, co rhe law
of an unJocatable present of rhe indicative, an anachronis-
tic simultaneity, if you will, between rhe present of the
Demeure
one who speaks and says "Iacer" and the present of those
who, one day, later, will read it, who are already reading it,
who are put on notice [mis en demeuu] or under house ar-
rest [assignls lJ demeure] in chis moratorium of writing.
Thus: "You who live Iacer, close to a heart chat no longer
beats, suppose, supposing this: the child-is he seven,
perhaps eight years old? ... " As in The Instant of My
Death, chis "primitive scene" will have begun with an al-
lusion to the youth of the other who is none ocher than
the ghost of the signatory, here che child, rhere the young
man. Perhaps the child: "perhaps eight years old ... "
In The Instant of My Death, the "later" seems simpler,
one more normally attached to the passe simple. Is this so
certain?
Larer, having returned to Paris, he mer [rmcontra) Malraux.
A return to literature and a return to the world, ro the
literary world, this time co the world of small literary
passions. A witness has just told us a story that took
place during the war, on July 20, 1944, fifty-one years
and four days ago. We are later. The epilogue already
refers to an anterior later, a later immediately following
the war: "Lacer, having returned to Paris ... " (Was he
thus nor in Paris during the war?) Behind this first epilo-
gal sentence an entire film passes by: the end of rhe war,
liberation, the purges, etc. Gallimard, NRF, Paulhan,
Drieu La Rochelle, ere. The whole entanglement of a
very questionable history-about which we have more
knowledge, but a knowledge char is also waiting for an
acknowledgment, for which we have been kepr waiting
longer, Iacer, chan the official avowal, lase week, of the re-
sponsibili ty of the French State in the aforementioned
history, rhar is to say, in whar since Nuremberg arc called
Demeure
99
crimes against humanity. "Later, having returned co Paris,
he encountered Malraux." Malraux, another "hero-of-
the-Resistance" who came to the Resistance later, rather
lace: be, roo, as did many, as did Sarrre, as did so many
"heroes-of-the-Resistance"-larer, very late. There was a
great morarorium of rhe Resistance for many writers dur-
ing a very productive period of French literature. Lacer,
finally, almost all of them meet up again at Gallimard,
Blanchor and Malraux in any event: we can assume this
given rhe reference co Paul han, the eminence grise of the
rue Sebascien-Bottin, whose figure, desti ny, role, chink-
ing, and writing during and after the war, earlier and
Iacer, bring together a good deal of the political tangle
under discussion:
Later, having rerurned ro Paris, he mer Malraux, who rold
him rhar he had been raken prisoner {wirhour being recog-
nized) and rhar he had succeeded in escaping, losing a man-
uscript in rhe process.
When rwo great French writers survive the war and the
Occupation and meet up at Gallimard, what do they say
to each other? What kind of news do they exchange?
"What did you write during the war? And your manu-
script?" For Malraux too lost a manuscript. Like "Blan-
chot," whose manuscript, we will remember or assume,
was seized by the Nazi lieutenant.
"Ir was only reAecrions on arr, easy ro reconstitute, whereas
a manuscript would nor be."
Subtle and interesting distinction- as if reflections on
art were not a manuscript. Could never be confused with
rhe writing of a manuscript. No indeed, Malraux seems to
be sayi ng, unless it is the author-narrator. The quotation
marks do not make it clear, bur this reflection, obligatory
100 Demeure
courresy, would be more decem coming from one who
has lost a book on art than from someone who has lost a
"manuscript."
This assumes another difference. What is a manuscript
if it cannot be reconstituted? It is a mortal text, a text in-
sofar as it is exposed to a death without survivance. One
can rewrite non-manuscripts, one can rewrite Malraux's
books, they a.re but reflections on an whose content is nor
bound to the unique event and the trace of writing. It is
not very serious; one can even say that these things are im-
morral, like a certain type of truth. Bur a manuscript-
and this would be its definition, a definition via rhe end-
is something whose end cannot be repeated and to which
one can only testify where the testimony only testifies to
the absence of attestation, namely, where nothing can tes-
tify any longer, with supporting evidence, to what has
been. Pure testimony as impossible testimony. Unlike the
witness-narrator, the manuscript has disappeared without
remainder; it does not even have speech to recall an in-
stant of death; ir can no longer say "my death. " This is
what is suggested by the last sentence of this episode of
literary ufe and the "What does it matter" char opens the
final paragraph. These are perhaps-in the somewhat fu-
tile guise of an episode from literary quarters-the most
simply tragic words of the narrative:
With Paulhan, he made inquiries which could only remain
in vain.
Unlike everything we have been discussing, rhe manu-
script seems to have been lost without remainder. Noth-
ing of it remains [demeure]. Unless one could say: without
remainder other than The Instant of My Death, than the
narrat ive entitled The Instant of My Death, irs last witness,
a suppl ementary substitute which, by recalling irs disap-
Demeure
101
pearance, replaces it without replaci ng it. The absolute
loss, perdition without salvation and without repetition,
would have been that of a piece of writing. To which one
can bur testify, beyond all present arrestation, however.
Let us listen now ro what will be said in order to end
"more precisely." Let us listen "more precisely":
What does it matter. All that remains is the feeling of light-
ness rhat is death itself or, to pur it more precisely, the in-
stam of my death henceforth always in abeyance.
This final, added precision, this precision more, this
"more precisely" bears the final signature of this remark-
able narrative. It must therefore not remain inaudible or
weakly perceptible. The "more precisely" admits that it is
not a question of "death itself," that ir has never been a
question of testifying to "death itself." This little word "it-
self [meme]" is crossed our by the compunction of the wit-
ness, as if he were saying: What remains in the abidance
[demourance], that of which rhe feeling of lighrness
20
is a
symptom or a truth, is nor death itself, the being or the
essence or what belongs to death, to the event itself, the it-
self or the Selbst of death properly speaking. There is not
death properly speaking. It is nor "death itself"; death it-
self is properly prohibited.
Permanently even [A demeure mbne].
What there is is only, "more precisely," the instance of
rhe instant of my death, the instance of my death always
in abeyance-in every sense, according ro all the in-
stances of rhe word imtance that we have seen condensed,
displaced, suspended, rhar we have seen as rhey them-
sel ves remain in abeyance, waiting co be handed over, de-
livered, judged. According to a term about which ir is dif-
ficult to say rhar ir remains co come.
The association of "always" with "henceforth" ("hence-
102 Demeure
forth always in abeyance [desormais toujours m instance]")
countersigns the abidance [Ia demourance]. The persis-
tence of always, as instance of the aion, chis Greek word
meaning cime, the duration of a life, a generation, all of
life, both the present rime and endless eternity, is here
combined with "henceforth," which signifies "from now
on and in the furure," thus "later": always later, the future
always later, the permanent future [l'avmir a dmzeure] .
Permanently even [A demeure mbne]. With the word tJrt-
navant, which means almost the same thing as d!sormais,
without having exactly the same grammatical relation to
time, the adverb desormais is for me one of the mosr beau-
tiful, and one of the most untranslatable, words, in a
word, in the French language.
In order to ask your pardon for having made things go
on so long, in order to end without ending in great haste,
and since I have only spoken, in French, of the French
language and French Literature, here are several desormais's
with which both the French language and French litera-
ture have distinguished themselves.
These desormais's all say-and it is certainly nor in-
significant-something about the compassion and the
"complaining" to which, as with remainders, as with a
talk, one must know how to pur an end.
Corneille, first, in Cinna: "On portera le joug dlsormais
sans se plaindre [We will bear the yoke henceforth without
complaining]."
La Fontaine, next, whose memory is being celebrated
these days:
Desormais que rna muse, aussi bien que mes jours,
Touche de son dec! in l' inevirable cours,
Er que de rna raison le flambeau va s'ercindre,
lrai-je en consumer les resres a me plaindre?
Demeure
Henceforth given rhar my muse, as well as my days,
Draw to their inevitable close,
And thar the flame of my reason will soon be
exringuished,
Shall I consume whar remains of them by
complaining?
( P o h i ~ mtlitS}
103
Amyot finally, the French patron of translation, the
translator of Parallel Lives and the Lives of Plutarch. He
knew to wri te this: "C'esr desormais assez discouru sur ce
point [Henceforth, enough has been said on this point]."
Reading "beyond the
beginning"; or, 0 n the
Venom in Letters
Postscript and "Literary SuppLement"
Curtius, thus. A brief allusion co Curtius, too brief, of
course, gives me the opportunity to take up an insult. Se-
rious, comic, and symptomatic at once. A venomous "Let-
ter to the Editor" (J. Drake, Times Literary Supplement
[ TLS], May 2, 1997) has just been published, which rakes
as its pretext another allusion to Curtius, even more brief,
that I made more than thirty years ago in De Itt gramma-
tologie (Minuir, 1967, p. 27). I devoted several lines then
to "The symbolism of the book, this beautiful chapter in
European Literature and the Latin Middle Ages."
Should one respond co a correspondent who first con-
fuses several of Plato's dialogues with each other and then
the discussion wirh the injury? When one is nor oneself
discouraged by such arracks, should they be encouraged
by being taken seriously?
Should one respond, taking the risk of legitimating
methods so harmful co discussion, to research, and, finally,
ro rhe public and academic space?
Should one respond to hare-filled gesticulations when
they proceed with such worrisome signs of ignorance or
obscu ranrism?
104
Postscript
105
Should one respond in a journal that seems to make
rhese rantings agajnst me a sort of specialty, a genre in it-
self-from the time, I am told, I was awarded an honorary
doctorate by Cambridge University? This great and presti-
gious university would rhus have committed, by usurpa-
tion as it were, a no doubt unforgivable mistake in the eyes
of certain distinguished intellectuals, English or not, the
very ones who are made fun of-another inadmissible out-
rage-by a recent book (Derrida for Beginners), one of
those comic-strip volumes that the venerable TLS has
never reviewed, except, that is, on this occasion, as if to
launch the offensive I am talking about (cf. R. Harris,
"FiddJe, fiddl e, fiddle," TLS, March 21, 1997). Mr. Harris's
article begins, furthermore, with a protest in nationalistic
style on the subject of rhis honorary doctorate. Attacking
thus, he concludes with a strange word of advice ("above all
do not read!") given ro the "beginners" (in the name of the
Lumieresor the Enlightenment, I suppose): they are not ro
be tempted to venture beyond the begi nning in their read-
ing, in the reading of a book that concerns me, of course. I
quote: "The wont fote in store for beginners here would be
that they might be tempted to venture beyond the beginning."
I suppose ir .is this excellent advice, this enlightened rec-
ommendation for reading that seduced a French journal
from Montpelier, which I discovered on this occasion; ir
translates this luminous article under a magnificent title, in
which friends will recognize me: "The Nero of Philoso-
phy." (That's me. Ah, the Enlightenment! Always more
light! As for rhe ride of rhe journal that thus advises one
not to read, it is equally flamboyant: The Reader!)
To return to TLS: this last injurious lerrer, rhar of Mr.
Drake, belongs rhus to a series of analogous and equaJiy
furious miss.ives. They cite one another. They pass each
other rhe torch and they all return, one after rhe other, to
106
Postscript
the code and w the words of those who, at Cambridge
and elsewhere, loudly declared war on the occasion of this
docrorate: on my work, on my person, and on chose who
refer to them.
Should one respond, finally, above all, in a journal that
does nor respect the most elemenrary standard of profes-
sional ethics, a standard thar would consist in asking in
advance the person under attack or slandered if he or she
wishes to respond in the same issue? (For I admit I am not
a regular reader, to say rbe least, of this strange journal
chat TLS is or is becoming. When I do nor happen upon
these attacks in an airport, I am only informed of them
long after, indirecdy, thanks to worried or indignant
friends.) What is more, to respond in a journal, even after
the face, to a series of abuses published by the same jour-
nal, one must, as far as the handling of the response is
concerned, have confidence, somerhing, alas, f have on
more chan one occasion learned to lose.
This is why, henceforth, I rake my precautions: when at
lease I believe I must respond, f do so wirhour haste, on a
dare, in a form, and in a situation that are appropriate to
the seriousness of what I wane w say.
Here the following, very simply: after an attentive re-
reading of all the rexrs evoked and incriminated, I have
found nothing ro change in what I wrote (which was,
moreover, very laudatory) about Cunius in 1967. I would
give the exact same response to earlier attacks in the same
style, in the same journal (B. Vickers, "Letters to the Edi-
tor, " May 9, 1997) on the subject of what I wrote (which
was, moreover, very laudarory) about Peirce and Saussure
in De Ia grammatologie (p. 7ff for the former; Parr I, chap-
ter 2., for the latter). If I have understood rhe attacks (I am
nor certain about this, since, so far as clarity and the abil-
ity to demonstrate are concerned, the argumentation of
Postscript
107
the lesson-givers is not a model of the genre), and if I pur
them face to face with the texts incriminared, I still see no
infamy ro expose, no lapse ro detect or to regret in the
logic of what I wrote thirty years ago and about which my
censors seem to know nothing. This may seem presump-
tuous, bur I wiU not pretend to own up to mistakes our of
politeness, in order to appear modest or simply co make
the signatories of letters that are so spiteful feel good. I re-
ally think-if they wane to understand- char they muse
"venture beyond the beginning."
I can only insist here, in conclusion, on chis point, one
thar is, in my eyes, viral to rhe pursuit of this debate: by
giving, as I have just done, al l of the necessary references
(something which the scholarly correspondents of TLS do
nor do), I mean ro help rhe interested reader and invite
this reader to come to his or her own opinion, that is, co
reread and pariendy analyze ali of rhe documents in this
case. Bur for rhis, yes, the reader will indeed have to "ven-
ture beyond rhe beginning."
In order ro reconsrirure a context and arrive ar some
idea of the way in which my censors have engaged the
polemic and launched the assaulr, I would advise begin-
ning, of course, with the letter of someone who, quoting
rhe previous issues of TLS, suspects me of "intellectual
charlaranism" ar the very same moment that, on two sepa-
rate occasions-which cannor be accidental- he confuses
Phaedrus with Phaedo. Nothing less. Is rhis nor worrisome
on the part of a guardian who is so jealously preoccupied
with reserving for himself the righr ro interpret a philolo-
gist and hisrorian of great repute? Whar would the g r e ~ r
Currius have thought of a "scholar" who, coming to hts
rescue, does nor see the difference between two of Plaro's
dialogues, just because the two rides borh begin with Ph?
Ph, as in phamzakon, chis poison-remedy to which letters
108 Postscript
are compared: and this in Phaedru.s, nor PhaedD. If Mr.
Drake would like to read Plaro one day, he would see a dif-
ference, this difference at least to begin with.
And later- ! hope for hjm and his allies in this cam-
paign-perhaps he will also discern the dangers of confu-
sion. When one begins to read one should not, above all,
follow the advice of the author of "The Nero of Philoso-
phy." In order to escape obscurantism, one must, on the
contrary, I repeat my advice, always, always "venture be-
yond the beginning."
Notes
Notes
1. The only ide I submitted before t he conference was "Fie-
cion and Testimony."
2 . Cf. Jacques Derrida, Mimoim- pour Paul de Man
(Paris: Galilee, 1988), p. 44; Jacques Derrida, Memoim for Paul
de Man, uans. Cecile Lindsay, Jonathan Cull er, Eduardo Ca-
dava, and Peggy Kamuf {New York: Columbia University
Press, 1989), p. 22.
J. Cited in A. Berman, de l'irranger, (Paris: Galli-
mard, 1984), pp. 95-96.
4 Cited in ibid., p. 91.
5 . R. Curti us, European LiteraNm and the Latin Middk
Agt>s, trans. Willard Trask ( Princeton: Princeton University
Press, 1953), p. 16.
6. Ibid. , p. 12.
7 Ibid., p. 13. Concerning Curcius, see the Postscript,
"Reading 'beyond the beginning."'
8. "Foi et savoir: Les deux sources de Ia religion aux limites
de Ia raison," in Jacques Derrida and Gianni Vattimo, eds., Re-
ligion: Siminaire de Capri (Paris: Seuil, 1995); "Faith and Knowl-
edge: The Two Sources of ' Religion' at the Limit of Reason
Alone," trans. Samuel Weber, in Jacques Derrida and Gianni
Yatrimo, eds., Religion (Stanford: Stanford University Press,
1998), PP 1-78.
Ill
9 M. Bl anchor, Le pas nu-delii (Paris: Gallimard, 1973),
p. 107; M. Blanchot, The Step Nor Btyond, trans. Lyncte el-
son (Albany: Stare University of cw York Press, 1991), p. 76.
[Throughout , I have ar times silently altered published transla-
tions where need be to better reAccr aspectS of the original text
under discussion.-Trans.]
10. M. Blanchot, Lecriture du d!sttstre ( Paris: Gallimard,
1980), p. 105 (my emphasis); M. Blanchot , The \flriting f r l ~ e
Disaster, trans. Ann Smock (Lincol n: University of Nebraska
Press, 1986), p. 64. Mallarme also speaks of"l'Hore," "regarding
the book." [In following notes, the English page number of a
citation follows the French page number, separated by a soli-
dus.- Trans.]
11. Ibid. , p. uo/67 (my emphasis) .
11. Ibid., p. 70/41.
IJ. Ibid. , pp. 108- 9165-66.
14. The quotations from The ln.stnnt of My Dtttth will
henceforth follow on from one another withour the least de-
parrure from Blanchot's text-which we will attempt to follow
word by word.
15. Peggy Kamuf is the author of an admirable and as yet
unpublished translation of L'in.sfllnt de ma mort.
16. In fact or in truth (bur here again is something which
signs the difference berween fiction and testimony) the dare
1807 is slightly erroneous. Jena was occupied by the French on
Monday, October 13, 1806. As Mkhel Lisse has since reminded
me, on this dare Hegel writes at length to Nierhammer-con-
cerning one of these manuscript stories, abom which we will
speak further: "I have such worries abour sending off the man-
uscript last Wednesday and Friday, as you can sec by the
dare.-Last night at around sunset I saw rhe gunshots fired by
the French .... I saw the Emperor-this spirit of rhe world-
leave rhe city ro go on reconnaissance; it is indeed a wonderful
sensation to see such an individual who, concentrated in a sin-
gle point, sitting on a horse, extends over rhe world and domi-
nates it .... given what is happening, I am forced to ask myself
if my manuscript, which was sent off Wednesday and Friday
Notes
II J
has arrived; my loss would indeed be roo great; the people that
I know have suffered nothing; must I be the only one?"
Hegel must, like his landlord, have left his house to the
French soldiers. Several days later, to the same Niethammer,
he specifies: "Your house ar Leirergasse (where I stayed several
hours) was, it is true, in danger of fire .... As I have been pil-
laged here .. . If in the end one of rhe packers of the manuscript
is losr, my presence will be altogether necessary; it is rrue that
these people have put my papers in such disorder" (October 18,
1806). Several days later, to the same: "[ H]ow lucky for the
French and for us that we have this weather! If the wind had
been blowing, the entire city would have been reduced to ashes!"
(October 12, 1806).
Dichtung und Wahrheit: salvation for another castle, before
orher troops of occupation. Goethe ro his friends in Jena on
October 18 of the same year: " In my house, nothing has been
damaged, I have lost nothing .... The castl e is intact. " (Cf.
Hegel, Co"espondance r. 1785-r8r2, trans. J. Carrere [Paris:
Gallimard, 1961), pp. 115- 19).
And always in the name of the salvation of the trace, here of
the manuscript ro be saved, at the instant of death, during the
Second World War, the following, which Michel Lisse has also
brought to my attention: "Whatever happens, the manuscript
must be saved. It is more important than my own person"
(Walter Benjamin to Lisa Firtko, cited by Bernd Witte, Walter
Benjamin: Une biographie, trans. Andre Bernold [Paris: Le
Cerf, 1988], p. 153).
17. Hegel to Nierhammer, on the same October 11, 1806:
"In this general misery, your friendship brings me such conso-
lation and help! Without this help, I do nor know what stare I
would be in!" (Hegel, Correspondance 1, p. 118).
18. I have tried to analyze these elsewhere. Cf. Pamges (Paris:
Galilee, 1986), p. 91 and pttssim.
19. Blanchot, Lecriture du d!sttstre, p. 117; Bl anchot, The
Writing of the Disttster, p. 71.
10. The instance of the instant, the insram of death prom-
ised by verdict or condemnation, an ecstatic feeling of Iibera-
tion and lightness, does all this not impose a movement or a
moment of "grace," of"true grace" on this "passion"? Like a sal-
vation? A forgiveness suddenJy indifferent to salvation? At the
instant of rereading these pages one last time, 1 remember a
passage from Thomas Obscure. 1 had alrtady forgonen it at
the moment I quoted it in La caru postakon August 17, 1979.
Allow me to cite the citation of this forgerring: "[ H)e [ Pierre,
my son] rarely leaves his room (guitar, records, his type-writer
noisier and more regular than mine, I'm downstairs), yesterday
it was to show me this passage from Thomas Obsetm (I'll
tell you how he fell upon it) thar 1 had totally forgotten, al-
though rwo or three years ago I had commented on it ar length:
' ... I was even rhe onJy possible dead man, I was the only man
who did nor give the impression of dying by chance. All of my
strength, the feeling that 1 had of being, when taking the hem-
lock, not Socrates dying, bur Socrates augmenting himself with
Plato, thar certainty of not being able to disappear possessed
only by those who are struck with a fatal illness, that serenity
before the scaffold which gives ro the condemned their true
grace, made each instant of my life the instant when 1 was go-
ing to quit life"' (Jacques Derrida, Post Card: From Socrates
to Fuud and &yond. trans. Alan Bass (Chicago: University of
Chicago Press, 1987], p. 243).
MER I DIAN
Crossing Aesthetics
Maurice Blanchot I Jacques Derrida, The Instant of
My Death I Fiction and Testimony
Niklas Luhmann, Social Sysum of Art
Emmanual Levinas, God, and Time
Ernsr Bloch, The Spirit of Utopia
Giorgio Agarnben, Pottntialities: Colkcted Essays in Philmophy
Ellen S. Burr, AppeaL Frmch
Lyric and the Political Spau
Jacques Derrida, Adin1 to Emmamu/
Werner Hamacher, Essays on Philosophy and
from Kant to
Aris Fioreros, Gray Book
Deborah Esch, In Evmt: journalism,
&ading
Winfried Menninghaus, In Praise of Nonsmu:
!Vznt and
Giorgio Agamben, The Man Without
Giorgio Agamben, The End of the Poem: Studies in Poetics
Theodor W. Adorno, Sound Figures
Louis Marin, Sublime Poussin
Philippe Lacoue-Labarthe, Poetry as Expaimu
Ernsr Bloch, Literary Essays
Jacques Derrida, Resistances of Psychoanalysis
Marc Frornenr-Meurice, That Is to Say: Heidegger's Poetics
Francis Ponge, Soap
Philippe Lacoue-Labarthe, 7jpogmphy: Mimesis, Philosophy,
Politics
Giorgio Agamben, Homo Sneer: Sovereign Power and Bare Lift
Emmanuel Levinas, Of God Who Comes to Mind
Bernard Stiegler, Technics and Time, 1: TIJe Fault of Epimetluus
Werner Hamacher, pleroma-Reading in Hegel
Serge Leclaire, Psychoanalyzing: On the Order oftlu
Unconscious and the Practice of the Letter
Serge Leclaire, A Child Is Being Killed: On Primary Narcissism
and the Death Drive
Sigmund Freud, Writings on Art and Literature
Cornelius Casroriadis, World in Fragments: Writings on Politics,
Society. Psychoanalysis, and rhe Imagination
Thomas Keenan, Fables of Responsibility: Aberrations and
Predicaments in Ethics and Politics
Emmanuel Levinas, Proper Names
Alexander Garda Diirtmann, At Odds with AIDS: Thinking
and 7tzlking About a Virus
Maurice Blanchot, Friendship
Jean-Luc Nancy, The Muses
Massimo Cacciari, Postlmmous People: Vienna at the
Tuming Poim
David E. Wellbery, The Spemlar Momem: Goethe's Early
Lyric and the Beginnings of Romnmicism
Edmond Jabes, The Little Book ofUmuspecud Subversion
Hans-Jose Frey, Studies in Poetic Discourse: Ma/Larm!,
Baudelaire, Rimbaud, Holder/in
Pierre Bourdieu, The Rules of Art: Genesis and Structure of the
Literary Field
Nicolas Abraham, Rhythms: On the Work, Translation, and
Psychoanalysis
Jacques Derrida, On rhe Name
David Wills, Prosthesis
Maurice Blanchor, The Work of Fire
Jacques Derrida, Points . .. : lmerviews, 1974- 1994
J. Hillis Mmer, Topographies
Philippe Lacoue-Labarthe, Musica Ficta (Figures of g n e r )
Jacques Derrida, Aporias
Emmanuel Levin as, Outside the Subject
Jean-Franc;ois Lyotard, Lessons on the Analytic of the Sublime
Peter Fenves, "Chatter': Language and History in Kierkegnard
Jean-Luc Nancy, The Experience of Freedom
Jean-Joseph Goux, Oedipus, Philosopher
Haun Saussy, The Problem of a Chinese Aesthetic
Jean-Luc Nancy, The Birth to Presence
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Dam
Blanchot, Maurice.
[Instant de rna mort. English)
The instant of my death I Maurice Blanchot. Demeure I
Jacques Dcrrida ; [translated by EliUtberh Rottenberg).
p. em.- (Meridian)
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 0-8047-3325-2 (cloth : alk. paper)- ISBN o-8047-3326-0
(paper : alk. paper)
1. Blanchot, Maurice-Criricism and interpretation.
I. Rottenberg, Elizabeth. II. Derrida, Jacques. Demeure.
English. 111. Tide: Demeure. fV. Title. V. Meridian
(Stanford, Calif.)
PC:t60J.L3J43 157 2000
843'912-dc21 99-462364
() This book is printed on acid-free, archival quality paper.
Original printing 2000
Last 6gure below indicates the year of this printing:
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Typeset by James P. Brommer
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